


We are all fools in love...

by Arethusa_eire



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-11-23 06:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18148595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arethusa_eire/pseuds/Arethusa_eire
Summary: You're on the run from a destructive old life, taking from it what you need to survive. Arthur Morgan is looking for a way to save his gang of outlaws, his family, before they destroy each other.Unfortunately, your paths cross for worse and then, maybe, for better?





	1. Paths Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is my first time writing any type of fanfic and well any kind of creative writing ever! My love of playing RDR2 and our sweet, sad cowboah made it too hard to resist!  
> Any creative criticism is welcome cos what I think might sound great in my head, could actually look like a load of shite to everyone else! I'm just writing as I go along so I'm hoping there will be some semblance of a story along the way...this is very self-indulgent! (Also, I'm Irish so some words are Hiberno-English and not American-English. Hope it doesn't ruin the immersion!)  
> Thanks a million & Happy St.Patrick's Day!  
> x

The mid-afternoon sun shimmers high in the sky and an almost quiet, contemplative mood has settled over the town of Valentine dulling the sounds of horses whinnying and the hollers of traders voices coming from the animal mart close by to a gentle murmuring.

A loud and repetitive _ba-dthump_ , _skritch, ba-dthump, skritch_ interrupts the peace. Halfway up the steps leading up to the Valentine train station, you curse softly as you brush away the beads of sweat building on your brow and look down at the bag resting at your feet. “I shouldn’t have taken so much,” you mutter to yourself as you loosen a button of your cream blouse, it’s high neck chafing you in the heat.

Bracing yourself, you begin to pull the bag up the last step when you hear a commotion to your right. “Now Miss, let me help you there. A woman shouldn’t have to carry such a heavy bag by herself.” Turning, you see an older gentleman stumbling towards you. You could tell he was already drunk, the bottle of cheap whiskey gripped in his hand is the strongest indicator. The other was his face; big grey beard covering a deeply lined face, red nose and ruddy cheeks of a long time alcoholic.

He beams at you when your eyes meet and he is on top of you in an instant, gripping the handles of your bag from your hands. “Don’t touch that!” you snap in a clipped voice, leaning away from his grinning face and pulling the handles back from him. “I am more than capable of moving this bag myself and I think you will not be much help at all given your, current state.” You say all this while trying not to breathe in, the smell of stale sweat and alcohol mixed in with the sweltering heat is already making your stomach churn. Smile faltering, the drunk looks at you and down to the handles gripped firmly in your fingers. “Oh, well maybe you’re right,” he muses while taking an uneven step backward. “I do suffer from chronic lumbago, you know? Lifting anything too heavy will put me 6 feet under, I can tell you that!” he chortles as he turns and stumbles away from you.

Breathing a sigh of relief that you had deflected the drunk, you position yourself to lift your bag up the last step when the drunk hollers out across the station, causing you to flinch. “Arthur! My lumbago is flaring up again and I can’t help this fine lady with her bag.” He dramatically grips his low back as if in tremendous pain. Hunching over your bag you clench your teeth together firmly. “I don’t need this right now. Not today!” you grit out. You were starting to feel the effects of the last 12 hours, stealing away as silently as possible from the estate in the dead of night while trying to quietly carry this dead weight of a bag, you couldn’t be dealing with drunks on top of it all!

Straightening yourself up you brush your palms down the front of your dark green skirts, in an attempt to calm your fraying nerves, and look across to where the drunk is ambling. Slouching half off the bench with his legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded across his chest, you see the drunk’s friend. Well not all of him, his hat was tilted down over his face, obscuring what you were assuming to be another set of red, ruddy cheeks and glassy eyes. “Arthur!” the drunk shouts again shaking the arm of the sleeping man. “Wake up and help the fine lady!”

“Dammit Uncle!” the man groans from under his hat. “The _fine lady_ has already told you she don’t need your help so why’re you comin’ over to bother me about it?” Uncle looks between you, your hands now resting on your hips; mouth set in a firm line, and back to the man, exasperation written on his face. “Well she just looks like she needs some help is all,” he stutters, “and we’re trying to fit in here, just like Dutch asked us to and she...”

The man bolts upright at that moment and grips Uncle by the arm, pushing his hat low over his head with the other. “Would you stop runnin’ your mouth off so loudly about what Dutch does and doesn’t say?” he hisses while throwing a glance in your direction. Only the sharp jaw and firm set of his mouth were showing from under his hat and you take an involuntarily step back at the intensity of his posture. Taller and much broader than you had expected, you immediately notice the gun belt hanging low on his hips and how the spurs of his boots clinked on the boards as he grapples with Uncle. _Is he a cowboy, or an outlaw?_ you ask yourself, as you take in the dark jeans and grey button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“It’s, um, it’s fine, mister,” you call over, pulling yourself back from your thoughts with a gentle shake of your head. “I can manage this on my own. I don’t want to be disturbing you or your Uncle.” The man pauses briefly, looking you over from under his hat and nods once in your direction. Still gripping Uncle’s arm, he pulls him back down on to the bench whispering harshly to him.

Seeing their attention has finally moved from you, you put all your strength into one final pull and get the bag up on to the platform with a resounding thud. With a satisfied smirk, you drag the bag behind you into the much cooler station house to secure a ticket for the next train going as far south as possible.

“This train won’t arrive for another 4 hours Miss if that is going to be an issue?” the scratchy-voiced Teller says through the hatch and your heart drops slightly. Lowering his voice further he adds, “It will be a night train and this isn’t exactly a great place for a lady travelling alone to be waitin’.”

“Oh I should be fine, but thank you, sir,” you say, quirking the corners of your mouth into a shy smile. “I’ll stick close to the platform so if there is a commotion, you can come to my rescue.” The teller turns a shade of red at your comment, almost as red as that Uncle’s nose. “Uh, ah yes. I sure can miss. Don’t you worry!” he blusters.

Picking up your ticket, your smile growing at the bashful Teller, you make your way through the door out onto the track platform, a wave of heat and dust enveloping you again as you drag your bag behind you, floorboards underneath grating loudly the whole time. Finding a bench in the shade, you perch yourself and begin your slightly longer wait for freedom. _I should be patient,_ you think. _Another few hours won’t mean too much....unless Felix is already out looking for me?_ Feeling your heart seize at that thought, you quickly take your hat from your bag and pull it low over your head, obscuring your face from view.

Settling back into a more comfortable position on the bench you watch as the sun begins its fall to the horizon. Your mind begins to wander, thinking back over the events that led up to this moment. “A marriage of convenience,” your father had called it and you scowl thinking back to that particular conversation. At 28 you had considered yourself an old maid and safe from the prospect of an arranged marriage. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t actively tried to dissuade any potential suitors that did show an interest in you over the years. Being the eldest daughter to a family with no sons, you were treated like the son your father had always wanted. You were taught to shoot and to fish; he trained you how to properly ride and care for a horse.

This upbringing gave you rougher edges than that of your more refined peers who would spend most days gossiping over their embroidery. Once you realised that the dirt wedged under your nails after a morning mucking out stables and the slang you picked up from the stable hands would make the most patient suitor take on a look of mild disgust, you made sure to exaggerate any unfeminine qualities to the point of ridiculousness. You laugh to yourself when you think back on the poor shocked face of one suitor when he asked to share a drink with you at a soirée your father had hosted. You asked for a whiskey, neat, downing it like it was water. He seemed amused at first, but his face soon turned sour when you ask for two more, knocking them back in quick succession. Another thing you had learned from spending a lot of your time in the stables.

Unfortunately, the lure of marrying off their “spinster” daughter to anyone who would take her was too good to resist and despite your fervent protests, nothing would change their minds. Enter Felix Buchanan, son of your father’s new business partner and your husband for the last six months. Known by most to be a lecherous drunk, he could, however, put on a gregarious act in front of his peers and pass himself off as charming and, at times, almost debonair. It made you sick to think that in private only his family and eventually you knew how violent and dangerous he really was.

During that time, while short, you endured isolation from your old life, of the freedom you had enjoyed for much of your life. Felix vehemently disagreed with the idea of his wife going shooting or not riding a horse side saddle. You were barred from leaving the house unless accompanied by him and you vividly remember the first time you disobeyed that rule. You had sneaked out to the stable to see your horse, Shandy, which you had managed to bring with you when you were moved into his estate. Leaning over the stable door, you didn’t hear him approach until you felt the firm, icy grip of his hand on the back of your neck, freezing you to the spot. You felt your stomach roil when you heard his revolver being pulled from its holster, crying out as he shot Shandy dead on the spot, the horse whinnying in pain as it dropped to the ground in a heap. He tightly squeezed his grip on you as you tried to free yourself, tears running down your face.

Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss to the side of your head and walked away as quickly as he had arrived, a tuneless whistle leaving his lips. Crumpling to the ground, unable to take your eyes off the red hot blood pooling on the stable ground you realised the perverse physical and emotional abuse your darling husband could inflict. You became very good at covering the bruises on your arms and neck in the months that followed. _There’s no going back now,_ you think as you feel your eyes drift closed. _He’ll definitely kill me this time._


	2. Paths Cross - Arthur's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done out Arthur's POV of chapter 1 since I'm new at this and it seemed like a good idea at the time...the characters will merge in later chapters. Thanks!  
> 15.06 edit - I made a small edit to this chapter...I realised that Sean hasn't been rescued from the bounty hunters juuust yet so pulled it the sentence from the start of this chapter. Thanks, Arethusa

Arthur stretches his legs out in front of him as he takes a swig from the bottle of whiskey, feeling the warmth of the liquor spread through him. _The last few weeks have been tough_ , he thinks darkly, lips pulling into a grim line. _Tough on the gang. Tough on me._ Thinking back on their continued failures; in particular, that mess at Blackwater, with poor Jenny dyin’ and Davey following soon after makes a frustrated grumble bubble up in his throat. Hiding out in Colter for days, almost freezing to death themselves, just made it all so much harder. Finding Horseshoe Overlook was a small blessing, but short-lived when he learned from that Detective Milton that Mac had died in the Pinkerton's custody. Right now the whole gang is trying to lay low and hope they won’t draw any more attention to themselves. He rolls his stiff shoulders and lets out a long sigh as he looks out over the Heartlands. _I need to think of something that will get us out of this mess._

He is drawn from his thoughts as Uncle leans across him, grabbing the bottle from his hand and starts rambling in his ear. “Now Arthur,” Uncle slurs. “Did I ever tell you of the best damn lead I ever had for a bank heist?”

“Yes,” Arthur says with a sigh as he picks the hat from his head and rests it over his face, blocking out as much of the drunk as he can. “Many times and I don’t wanna to hear bout it again, ok? I just want a bit of damn quiet!”

“Well alright then,” Uncle replies, scrunching his nose at Arthur while taking a long draught from the bottle. Seeing that Arthur won’t engage him any more, Uncle casts his eyes over the countryside until a persistent _ba-dthump_ , _skritch_ catches his attention. He sits up straight when he sees a young woman struggling to get up the stairs and turns to Arthur, shaking his arm roughly. “Arthur!” Uncle bellows in his ear. “There’s a woman over there who could use some help with her bag. It sounds like she is dragging a ton of steel!”

“Then go help her with the god damn bag and leave me in peace!” Arthur snaps, pulling his arm out from Uncle’s grasp and crossing them over his chest. His mood was growing sourer as the events of the past few weeks constantly were creeping into his thoughts. _Dutch is right_ , he mulls. _We need money if we want to make our own way in the world, but we ended up leaving behind our entire stash in Blackwater! How the hell are we going to get that kinda money again!_

He hears Uncle ramble away at his damsel in distress and with a gruff sigh, Arthur settles down, trying to tamp down his dark thoughts. _I need to leave all that stuff up to Dutch. He says he has a plan so that should be good enough, right?_

The scuffles from Uncle, and the curt reprimand in the woman’s voice as it cuts across the station draws a chuckle from the outlaw. _That’ll teach the old drunk to try and help stuck up strangers,_ he thinks as he feels the tug of the whiskey relaxing him slightly.

His hands clench tightly into fists however at the sound of Uncle hollering his name across the station when Uncle is back at his side, shaking his damned arm again. “Wake up and help the fine lady,” Uncle bays into Arthur’s ear. “Dammit Uncle!” he groans from under his hat. “The _fine lady_ has already told you she don’t need your help so why’re you comin’ over to bother me about it?” Arthur could feel Uncle’s exasperation as he tries to find the right words. “Well she just looked like she needed some help is all and we’re trying to fit in here, just like Dutch asked us to and she…”

 _This fool is going to ruin us all and have every damn Pinkerton crashing down on us_ _if he keeps this shit up,_ Arthur storms, any patience he had for Uncle now worn thin. He shoots up from the seat, gripping the drunk by the arm. “Would you stop runnin’ your mouth off so loudly about what Dutch does and doesn’t say?” he hisses while throwing a sullen glance in the woman’s direction.

Although it only lasts a second, Arthur gauges several things about this stranger and her perceived situation; she was a lone woman in a rough cattle ranching town; her clothes were richly made; a silk cream blouse looked luxuriously soft and her deep green skirts were a rich, crisp cotton. Her skin looked porcelain smooth in the afternoon light, unblemished from too much sun or hardships. His eyes dart to the glittering brooch pinned at the base of her throat. It looked like those diamonds were real. _This woman ain’t got a clue!_ Arthur thinks bitterly, a frown knitting his eyebrows together. It was obvious to him that she was a rich woman on the run from something or someone.

He also noted that she only had one bag. A bag, if judging from how heavy it sounded on the stairs would be of extreme interest to the gang if Arthur had to take a guess at its contents.

“It’s, um, it’s fine, mister, I can manage this on my own. I don’t want to be disturbing you or your Uncle,” she calls across, with a little wave. Arthur nods once in her direction and still gripping Uncle’s arm pulls him back down on to the bench. He could hear the bag being dragged across the station and once she had moved inside the building he turns his attention back to Uncle. “What did you say earlier, when you saw her bag?” Arthur presses Uncle. “You said it sounded like she was carryin’ something heavy, what, steel?”

“Oh, yeah,” Uncle beams. “She was right for me not to lift it you know. I tried when I took them handles and I could feel my lumbago actin’ up it was so heavy! I don’t know why a woman all by herself would be wantin’ to drag a bag of metal around with her.”

“You are a god damned fool and a god damn pain in my ass, you know that?” he whispers harshly into Uncle’s ear. “But I think I have a lead that I’m gonna need your help with.”


	3. Freedom, well, almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're on the run from a destructive old life, taking from it what you need to survive. Arthur Morgan is looking for a way to save his gang of outlaws, his family, before they destroy each other.  
> Unfortunately, your paths cross for worse and then, maybe, for better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Back with a third chapter where I actually try to write both O/C and Arthur in the same scenes...I'm still getting used to writing fanfic and just writing in general so thanks so much for the kudos and comments. It's lovely and you're lovely!
> 
> Arthur is a small bit LowHonorArthur at the mo cos, well, things ain't been great for our Cowboah so it's understandable he is a bit peeved at society and the world in general....that will get better over time with of our reader barreling into his life.

After filling Uncle in on his plan, he gets the drunk to drive the wagon back to camp and pass on his message to the gang. He waits out the rest of the afternoon at the station house sitting on a bench, watching you from the corner of his eye. It wasn’t a hard job seeing as you were asleep by the time he’d come through the doors onto the platform, your head lolling down towards your chest a few times and jerking back up again in a panic. Eventually, you settled down into a deeper slumber.

So deep, in fact, you don’t flinch as your hat blows off and flutters across the platform in the breeze. It lands at Arthur's feet and picking it up, he walks over and places it on the bench beside you, pausing briefly to look down from under his hat at your sleeping form. Leaning back in the bench, your arms are pulled tight around you with your chin tucked into your chest, your breath slow and even. Your hair is mussed over your face from the breeze. Arthur scoffs and shakes his head in amazement at how completely naive you are. “It’s almost like she wants to be robbed,” he mutters to himself as his gaze lingers a bit longer on your face. A loud “harrumph” from behind him breaks his concentration and he looks over his shoulder to see the station clerk standing with arms crossed over his puffed up chest. “Sir,” he almost whispers, as if afraid of waking you. “Please step away from the lady. She shouldn’t be bothered by the likes of you.” Turning fully to face the clerk, Arthur steps closer to the man, looming over him. “What do you mean by _the likes of me_. Huh, boah?” Arthur growls, making the clerk step back with a flinch. “I was just returning the lady’s hat. I’m sure you can see that I was just being gentlemanly,” he grits out, hands moving to rest on his gun belt.

“Ah, but of course, Sir” the clerk stutters. “My apologies. It’s just the lady asked me to watch out for her since she is here all alone and I saw you standing over her and well I just needed to be sure you weren’t gonna be hurtin’ her or nothin’.” The clerk is now fidgeting with his hands as he stumbles over his words, Arthur's glare growing more intense at his rambling. “Well ain’t she lucky then that she has you here protectin’ her against any thievin’ miscreants that might stop by and try to rob her,” he smiles tightly, taking another step forward and gripping the clerk's shoulder. “You keep up the good work and I’ll go back to waitin’ for my train.” With that Arthur pushes himself away and walks back to his bench. Sitting with his ankle resting on his knee, arm slung over the back of the bench, he watches as the clerk shakes himself out of his stupor and quickly shuffles back into the station house briefly glancing at your sleeping form and back over at Arthur. “Damned kid,” Arthur sneers as he looks back towards you, feeling even less guilty about what he has planned. _That woman ain’t_ _got a damned clue what she is doin’ if she asked that kid to protect her_ , he thinks. _Maybe this is all a big dramatic game to her; she had a fight with her daddy or her husband and wants to teach them a lesson by stealin’ from ‘em and runnin’ off pretendin’ she can make it on her own_ , he shakes his head at the thought. _She is gonna soon learn a hard lesson about real life_ , he thinks as he takes out his journal to start a new sketch, waiting for dusk to arrive.

 

The shrill whistle sounding in the distance jerks you awake. _I must have nodded off_ _again,_ you think, rubbing your tired eyes. _I need to_ _stay_ _alert until I know I’m far enough away from Felix’_ _s possession_ _._ Dusk had settled across the heartlands and the glow of the lanterns around the station cast soft pools of light, moths bumping fruitlessly against the glass. _I have to stay sharp t_ _ill I know I am_ _free_ , you think, suppressing a shudder. _IF I’ll ever be truly_ _free_ _while Felix is still_ _out there_ _._ Rubbing your hands down your face you rise and stretch to loosen your stiff muscles, the tension of the last two days starting to creep into your body. Noticing your hat on the bench, you tuck it back into your bag. _It must have fallen off when I fell asleep_ , you think as you watch the train rolling into the station and stuttering to a halt at the platform, metal clanking, and steam hissing. “Here we go!” you whisper to yourself and grab the handles of your bag.

You drag your bag up to the steps of the train carriage, cheeks red and puffing slightly at the weight of it and you instantly feel a pang of dismay. The steps up to the carriage were far too steep and the gap between the train and the platform is wide. You won’t be able to pull the bag up the steps at this rate. Looking around you notice the platform is almost empty. Anyone you see is busy bustling themselves and their own luggage into other carriages. “I almost wish that drunk Uncle was around now,” you sigh loudly to yourself, hands resting on your hips. Seeing no other option, you gather all your remaining strength and hoist the bag to your chest with a small yelp, arms shaking and back straining with the weight. Why did you have to bring so much with you, you chide yourself as you try to keep your balance.

Amongst the shadows cast by the lanterns, Arthur leans out of sight against the wall of the station house. Bending forward to strike a match against his boot heel, he lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag all the while looking very intently across the platform as you struggle with your bag. He fees a grim smile tug at the edge of his mouth. _This will almost be too easy_ , he thinks. _Woman hasn’t a clue how damn obvious she looks._ Seeing your balance starting to look increasingly unsteady, Arthur stubs out the cigarette under his boot and pushes himself away from the wall, making his way towards you. You are about to tip backwards the bag now barely held over your head when Arthur towers behind your frame and easily grips the bag and confirming his earlier thoughts, he could feel the solid shape through the fabric and a subtle, but heavy _clink_ of metal, just as Uncle had said. _Dutch and Hosea will definitely want to see this_ , he thinks. _I hope Uncle_ _got back to camp and isn’t_ _drunk in some ditch_ _outside of Valentine_ _._

You didn’t realise that you had squeezed your eyes shut, anticipating the inevitable fall, and on feeling yourself being righted, you open them to see a second set of large hands pushing your bag up onto the train deck. You let your arms flop down and puff out a breath. _Thank goodness_ , you think. _I really didn’t need a concussion on top of everything else!_ Turning to thank the stranger, you are met with a broad chest fitted nicely into a grey button-down shirt. Sucking in a breath, you glance up and connect with a pair of striking blue eyes. Your eyes flit down to the stranger's full lips that are pulled into a gentle smirk. You’re frozen for a split second, captivated. “Ah, thank you, mister,” you stammer with a small curtsy, casting your eyes down and feeling a blush rise on your cheeks. “Ma'am,” he says in a voice that curls like smoke, as he tips his hat towards you and turns to walk down to the other carriage door, spurs clinking against the wood. You watch entranced as he deftly pulls himself onboard the train. _Was that the other drunk?_ you think, pressing your hands to your warm cheeks. _He definitely doesn’t seem like a drunk, not with_ _such clear blue eyes_ _!_

_W_ _hat the hell was that you old fool_! Arthur chastises himself as he drops into the corner seat of the carriage. _This is no time to be getting distracted by a pretty face_ , he thinks, adjusting his gun belt. Sure, he had watched you with quick glances from under the brim of his hat throughout the day and caught a glimpse of your profile when you were sleeping, but he never fully saw your face until that moment. He felt like he got punched in the gut, his breath catching in his throat. Wisps of deep chestnut hair framed your face and a dusting of freckles sprinkled across your delicate nose. His gaze didn’t make it to your lips, but he knew that they were probably very full and very soft. And those eyes... _Stop thinking of her damned face and focus on the job_ , he growls to himself, harshly rubbing the back of his neck. Regaining his composure, he glances around the carriage. _Only a handful of passengers,_ he thinks. _Perfect for what we’re plannin’_. He always prefers that these jobs go off without anyone getting hurt or killed. Too many times he has seen a simple job gets botched when a passenger with false bravado thinks he can take on a seasoned outlaw. _Fools_ , he thinks, shaking his head.

Still standing frozen on the platform, you are pulled out of your stupor by the conductor calling “All aboard,” along with the sound of carriage doors being closed. Chiding yourself at your girlish reaction to your brief encounter with the man, you pull yourself up the steps, dragging your bag and moving through the half-empty carriage to claim a seat. You notice that the man, _Arthur, wasn’t it_ , had seated himself with his back to the end of the carriage, legs once again stretched out, arms crossed over his chest and his hat slightly pulled down over his face.

You snap your gaze away as another passenger pushes past you. Excusing yourself, you move into the nearest seat available which has your back facing the cowboy, _or outlaw_ , you think. The train whistle screeches to life and you snap yourself back in to focus as the carriage gently lurches forward, pulling away from Valentine and from your old life.

Feeling a knot of tension in your shoulders ease you take a deep breath and blow it out through your lips. Arranging yourself in the seat, you move to look out the window as twilight overcomes the land once again, arm on the seat back with your chin resting in your hand. _I did it!_ you think. “I really did it!” you whisper feeling tears roll gently down your cheek and pooling in your palm.

Seeing you brush away a tear that rolls down your soft cheek, Arthur’s thickly layered resolve cracks the smallest bit. _W_ _hat are you running from_ , he wonders to himself. R _emember, you’re gonna rob the woman before this day is out_ , he bristles at the thought that chimes in over his unease. S _top feelin’ sorry for a rich girl runnin’ from home, because that much gold she is carryin’ will fix so many things that have gone wrong in the last_.

A low growl leaves his throats and looking out the window, waiting for the signal from his gang to let him know they’re ready to act. Spotting a blinking light in the near distance, he knows it was time to make his move, resolute in his decision.

 

 

 


	4. The Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our reader is a bubbling mess of anger and fear and our cowboah is just very conflicted....there are basically lots of angsty emotions being thrown around here by all parties...  
> There are also mentions of abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo!  
> Back with another chapter. This one I wrote a while ago and then rewrote it and rewrote it again and kind of went back to the original. Apologies if it's a little all over the place.  
> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you're enjoying the story so far!  
> x

 

The train rocks gently as it makes its way through the Heartlands, twilight enveloping the land, turning trees and outcrops into hulking shadows on the landscape. A murmur hums over the rattling of the train as passengers talk quietly amongst themselves, while others stare out the window into the inky darkness. Arthur shifts his eyes from the blinking light in the distance to your profile as you scrub the tears from your face. _T_ _ime to get started_ , he thinks firmly, a breath hissing through his teeth. He discretely checks the chambers of his Schofield revolvers and slides them back into his holsters. _Hopefully,_ _Dutch_ _just_ _sent_ _Charles and John_ _for_ _this job._ _Micah is too unreliable for something like this_ , he thinks darkly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that was building in him after coming face to face with you on the platform and the idea of having Micah on the job just put him more on edge. _I_ _just want to get the gold,_ _ride hard back to camp_ _and_ _give_ _everyone_ _a chan_ _c_ _e to get_ _back_ _on their feet._ Balling his hands into fists, he pushes aside the niggling thought in the back of his mind that what he is doing right now, stealing from a lone, innocent woman, is too much like Micah. “I ain’t nothing like that rat!” Arthur mutters to himself as he breaks his gaze from your face. _Focus on the job,_ _focus on your family_. He had watched closely as the train pulled in to Valentine station and counted that he was two storage cars and a tender car from the front of the train. _Should be easy enough to_ _stop the train_ _and get Charles and John to_ _take the bag_ _and_ _get the hell away_ , he thinks, eyes flickering back to you as you rest your chin on your tucked up knees, gaze staring out into the blackness of the night. _R_ _eal easy_ , he thinks as a feeling of shame seeds itself in his stomach.

Staring out into the dark landscape, you can feel the tension in your shoulders return as a growing unease builds inside of you as your thoughts shifting suddenly to Felix. Suppressing a shudder, you bury the flashing images of his cruelty further down in yourself to little avail. You’re close to breaking point and with all that has happened your doubts and fears keep pushing to the forefront of your mind.  _He is probably out searching for me right now_ , you think restlessly. _He has probably gathered all his men to scour the area for me_ _and when he finds me he will punish me_ _!_ The flash of lightness you felt earlier when sharing a blushing glance with the man sitting behind you is immediately snuffed out. Staring at your reflection you look closely at the woman you are now. You are gaunter than you remember, your cheekbones more protruding, your eyes that once held that vibrant sparkle are now dull and strained. _Everything changed when_ _I was paired with_ _Felix_ , you think morosely, fingers dropping from where you had been absently fiddling with your hair. _I feel like I’m made of glass now, just ready to shatter at any momen_ _t and I’m alone in picking up the pieces._ You feel a sob try to bubble up in your throat. _No!_ you think, taking a shaky breath, trying to sooth the raw emotions that are simmering under the surface. _I’ve fought against too much to keep from being broken by that man._ _I’m not going to let him have power over me anymore. I’m not going to_ _feel wea_ _k anymore!_ You clench your jaw as you look more intently at yourself. _Wherever I end up, the first thing I’m doing is getting a bath!_ you think, nodding firmly to yourself. _A really hot one, with a_ _big_ _fluffy towel and clean clothes._ _Then a_ _meal and a soft bed_ _for a long sleep_ _!_ _In the morning I’ll be better._ _This will all be better._ The panicked feeling dies away but underlining fear lingers on.

Behind you, Arthur rises and briskly walks down the aisle towards the front of the carriage, needing more and more to have this job finished. After clicking the carriage door shut behind him, he takes a deep breath. He had taken one quick glance at you as he passed down the aisle and despite being distracted briefly by your inviting eyes, the welfare of his gang wins out. _I have to do what I can to keep things together_ , he thinks as he pulls his bandana over his nose and checks over his revolvers again. _Everybody is nearly gone crazy back at that camp and this will help us get back on track_. “She don’t need all that gold anyway,” he mutters as if trying to convince himself over what he is about to do. Rolling his shoulders, he makes his way towards the cab at the front of the train. Scaling to the roof of the stock car, he crouches low and darts to the far end, jumping down and clambering over the tender. Trying to keep as quiet as possible over the rumble of the train, he peers over the edge to the cab and sees a lone fireman shovelling coal into the furnace. _Easy_ , he thinks as he hoists himself over the edge and lands in the small cab. Spinning around at the noise, the fireman’s eyes go wide as he sees the fist of the burly stranger fly towards his face. He hits the ground with a thud, knocked out cold from the blow. Stepping over his crumpled form, shaking out his hand, Arthur looks over the controls and spots the lever he needs. Leaning himself outside the cab he can see the mounted lantern light and the outlines of Charles and John trailing beside the carriages. “Here we go,” he grits as he pulls back on the brakes with all his might.

Hugging your knees to your chest, thinking wistfully of a hot, steaming bath, a flicker of light in the darkness outside distracts you momentarily. Sitting up, you press your face closer to the glass, hands shielding your eyes from the lights of the carriage you try to comprehend what you’re seeing. _It’_ _s_ _too close to be from_ _a campfire,_ you think, perplexed. _And i_ _t’s moving with the train?_ You’re carefully watching the dancing light when the train suddenly screeches to a brutal stop. With a cry you are thrown into the seat in front of you hear the panicked shouts of the other passengers as they’re flung from their seats. Picking yourself off the ground you can see everyone looking nervously towards the end of the carriage door. _Why has the train stopped like this!_ _What is going on?_ you think frantically, rubbing the pain from your shoulder. Before you can think, the sound of horses and shouting outside the train spins you around. “No!” you whisper, your breath stuttering, feet frozen on the spot. “He’s found me!”

The train lurches and stutters to a stop, brakes screeching loudly, sparks flying from the tracks. The muffled clanks of the carriage couplings coming to rest echo out into the night. Arthur hangs outside the cab and watches as John and Charles pull up their mounts by the first carriage and jump on to the gangway, pistols in hands and bandanas covering their faces. “She’s the one sitting on her own. She has a bag with her. That’s what we want,” he calls out to them and they both nod in understanding. Just as they are ready to burst through the door, a gunshot cracks in the near distance, startling all three men. Drawing his revolvers and pointing out into the darkness, Arthur feels a slow burning rage build up inside him as he spots the cause of the noise. Trotting towards where Arthur stands in the cab is Micah, guns drawn. Looking back to Charles and John, Arthur waves his hand, giving them an all clear. _Just get in there and get out. Fast!_ he thinks as he turns back to face Micah.

The gunshot startles everyone in the carriage and you numbly sink down on to the seat, worrying the folds of your skirt with your fingers.  _Maybe it’s not Felix,_ you try to comfort yourself _M_ _aybe it’s just bandits instead_. _If_ _it is bandits and_ _they find_ _my bag_ _then_ _all of this running_ _will have been for nothing_ , you think wildly, eyes fixed to the door. _But i_ _f it’s Felix and he finds_ _that_ _I_ _ran AND s_ _tole_ _from him_ _, he will murder me_! The other passengers cast nervous glances at the carriage door; they know what is going to happen next. A woman weeps softly while her husband tries to comfort her and you look behind to see that the man with the piercing blue eyes is no longer in his seat. _He had guns_ , you think frantically. _Maybe he has gone to fight them off, or maybe he ran when he heard the gunshot, knowing what was coming next_. Sucking in a shaky breath, the panic edging into your heart, you try to focus your thoughts. _Whoever is out there hasn’t_ _reached the carriage yet. I still have time!_ Shifting yourself off the seat, you crouch low over your bag and carefully open it, making sure none of the other passengers are looking your direction. Moving aside some blouses and skirts, your face is lit by a soft yellow glow.

Several gold bars shine up from where you have nestled them amongst your belongings. Picking one bar out, you wrap it in a colourful scarf and tuck it into the pocket of your skirts, feeling its heavy weight settle by your leg. One gold bar sold to the right person will keep you alive for a good few months until you can figure out your next. You pray that if it is bandits and they do find the bag, they’ll leave you alone. If it’s Felix, hopefully, you can run from him as fast as possible.

“Micah!” Arthur growls. “What the hell are you doin’ here!” Pulling himself from his horse, Micah climbs up the ladder to join Arthur in the engine cab. “Well, I heard from Uncle that there is a big train robbery happenin’ and I felt like it shouldn’t be missed. Heard word of gold and of a pretty lady. You know they are two things I can’t resist, Morgan!” he snickers, slapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Shrugging off his hand, Arthur can’t help but feel a wave of anger wash over hm. “You ain’t needed here, Micah. Just move back and leave it to Charles and John. We don’t need you goin’ in there shootin’ up everyone and bringin’ the law down on us!” he barks as the blonde man leans back on his heels, thumbs hooked through his belt staring at Arthur with a grin tugging his mouth.

Covering the rest of the bars as best you can, you close the bag and try to shove it under your seat just as the door at the far end of the carriage bursts open. Your bandits have arrived and you breath out a quiet sigh. _Thank God, it’s not him!_ There are two of them; hats sit low on their heads while the bandana’s pulled over their noses only leave the slits of their eyes visible. Guns in hand, they make their way through the carriage. “All right, ladies and gentleman,” the lead bandit hollers, his voice dark and cracked, “This is a robbery and if you don’t want to get hurt, give us all of your valuables. If you don’t feel like parting with them, my associate here will make you change your mind.” He gestures to the broad-shouldered, darker skinned man behind him, a thick mop of hair running past his shoulders. Manoeuvring your skirts, you quickly try to cover any signs of the bag under the seat and fumble with a brooch pinned to the blouse at the base of your neck.

The weeping woman is now screaming as the first bandit cracks the butt of pistol off the man’s nose, breaking it with a gush of blood. “Just give him what he wants, Tom!” the woman screeches. The money clip dropped into the waiting bag seems to appease the bandits and they make their way closer to your seat. Keeping your eyes cast down and face turned away, you hold the brooch out, silently hoping they will take it and keep walking towards the next carriage.

The heavy thud of their boots stop when they get to your seat, the brooch lifted from your shaking fingers. You hear it jangle against the other spoils in their bag. _Just keep calm and they’ll be gone soon_ , you think. Your heart races faster as the men don’t move from your side.

“I think this is her,” the first says to the second. “Morgan said it was a woman in this carriage, travelling alone with a worn looking bag, but I don’t see the bag.” Your heart seizes and you can feel a sob trying to claw its way out of your throat. _How do they know_ _who I am_ _!?_ your mind reels as you turn your head towards them, their gazes cutting right through you. “P-please,” you croak, eyes meeting theirs. “My husband. My husband went to the other carriage,” you point to the door behind you. “He- he is, he will come back, I’m not alone. Please,” you tremble at the intensity of their stares. _Please leave, please leave, please leave_ , you repeat over and over in your head. The bandits look towards each other and back at you, your breathing now becoming thin as you feel the full force of their scrutiny. “I’ll go check it out and meet you back outside,” the second bandit says, pushing past the first. “You find out from Morgan if she is in another carriage.” They split, each making for the doors at either end of the carriage. You let out a shaky breath. I _need to run, NOW!_ your mind screams. _They’re going to find out I lied and they will come back for me._ _Take me back to him!_

Arthur glares at Micah who casually leans against the tender car. “Relax Morgan. I’ll leave it to those two boys to get the gold, but leave it to the man to get the girl,” Micah cackles, pointing to himself while turning to climb up the tender. Arthur lurches after him and drags him back down to the cab. Turning him roughly he has Micah gripped tightly by the collar of his jacket. “We’re only here for the gold, Micah. That girl ain’t gotta do anything more than be robbed by us, you understand?” he grits out through clenched teeth. Shoving Micah back against the tender box he takes a step back and rests his hand on the grip of his revolver, eyes like flint as he watches for Micah’s next move. “You should see you face cowpoke,” Micah barks out a laugh, shaking his head. He turns and moves to the edge of the cab, whistling for his horse. “I know when I’m not wanted so I’ll leave this job to you and your _boys_ ,” he sneers as he climbs into his saddle and kicks it into a gallop. Arthur watches until Micah is no more than a smudge in the blackness, his thoughts turning sourer since Micah’s arrival. “That bastard,” he sighs, shaking his head as he climbs back across the tender box to the passenger carriage doors. “What the hell is taking them so long! It’s just one damned bag!” he curses.

As you watch the first bandit reach the door, you start to lift yourself from your seat and get ready to run, when a third bandit abruptly pushes his way into the carriage and stops in front of the first. “You get it?” he storms. His face obscured by a hat and bandana but you catch a glimpse of a grey button-down shirt, rolled at the sleeves and the edge of a gun belt, sat low on the hips. Your stomach drops as you recognise the man from earlier. It’s Arthur. “She said she has a husband in the other carriage. Charles is checking it out now,” John says, pointing a thumb behind in your direction. “Are you sure this is the carriage?” John mumbles lower to him. _What the hell is John talkin’ about_ , Arthur thinks as he pushes past him. His jaw clenches when he sees you, halfway out of your seat, ready to bolt and you freeze on the spot when his eyes lock with yours. “Goddamn it John, that’s her!” he shouts, his patience finally snaps and he thunders down the aisle towards you. _This is all taking too long. We just need to get the bag and get before the law shows up_ , he seethes to himself. _Before I change my mind_ , he adds as he sees your eyes grow wide with fear. You watch the man barrel towards you, his gait fierce and his eyes burning into yours. M _ove!_ you scream to yourself, but your legs don’t react. Fear keeps you rooted on the spot.

He reaches you in a breath and not seeing the bag, he yanks you roughly up to standing. You yelp in pain as his large, calloused hand crushes your wrist like a vice. “Where is the bag?” he asks you through gritted teeth, eyes piercing into yours. Any pretence of civility from earlier in the evening now vanished. _He knew what I had when he helped with the bag_ , you think, your mind reeling. _Did he know the whole time? D_ _id Felix send him to find me, to take back what I stole?_ Your breaths are coming out shorter as the intensity of the situation grows. _What are they going to do with me?_ Arthur can feel your body shaking in front of him and he feels a grim satisfaction when you whimper at his tightening grip. _You should be afraid, sweetheart. You should have thought of a situation like this before you thought_ running away _was such a good idea!_ he thinks darkly. Feeling your bones grind against the pressure of his grip, pain increasing with each second, your eyes involuntarily flick down between you. He pushes you away and you crumple back against the carriage clutching your aching wrist to your breast. Reaching under the seat, he withdraws your bag and feeling more a fool than you ever thought; your fear from the last day, hell, from the last six months, twists itself instead into a seething rage as he starts to open it, pulling out your only clothes. Your only belongings. _No!_

“That ain’t yours!” you snarl as you lunge towards him, gripping his arm with both hands, trying to stop him from pulling the last threads of your life apart. Acting now on pure instinct that comes with a few decades of train robberies, Arthur has your back pushed up against the window of the carriage, one hand gripping your arm tightly while the other rests like an anvil on your shoulder, thumb pushing your chin up to face him as you try to turn away. His body is almost flush with yours and you feel your neck straining to look up into his severe eyes. The sweet smell of leather and gun oil you caught from him earlier now sours your senses. “It would be best for you, princess, if you just leave us take this bag of yours and you just go back to wherever you came from. Beg your Husband, or your Daddy for forgiveness, get yourself a slap on the wrist and forget that this ever happened.” He says all this in a low growl, eyes boring into yours from under his hat. _This woman ain’t nothing more than a stuck up, rich whelp_ , he thinks, squeezing you harder as you struggle in his grip. _Of course, she would fight for her gold. All she knows is money._

Your freeze when you hear him speak. _Felix hasn’t sent him to find me_ , you think wildly. _He hasn’t a clue who I am, he is just some damn crook trying to rob me!_ Your breath is coming fast and hot now, adrenaline coursing through your veins and an anger brewing in your stomach. “You have no idea what I came from,” you spit out. He feels you trying to loosen from his grasp, but he grips you tighter, his anger bubbling up inside of him. He leans his face closer to yours, his icy blue eyes almost hollowed pits. “I know exactly what you came from, darlin’,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “You came from a life of privilege where you never had to worry your pretty little head about where you would get your next meal. I figured you didn’t get what you wanted this time and decided to run away from home. Pretend that you could start a new life on your own. The fact that you were so stupid to think that carryin’ this much gold around wouldn’t get ya robbed speaks volumes of how naive you really are!” he almost shouts the last few words, his frustration palatable now.

Arthur's words strike a chord with you and you suddenly feel frustrated tears prick the edges of your eyes. _He has no idea!_ you think angrily. _I had to get out. I had to escape no matter what!_ Your mind reels at the accusation he has thrown at you. _This damned bastard thinks he knows where I came from?_

“Fuck you,” you grit out, eyes still locked with his as your lip curls into a snarl. “And get your damn hands off of me!” He releases you then and takes a step back, raising his hands. “As the _fine lady_ wishes,” he sneers with a mock bow, as he kneels to close the bag. _God damn this plan to hell!_ he seethes. _This damned woman is becoming a thorn in my side. We need to leave, now!_

You watch on as Arthur closes your bag and with shaking hands, you begin to undo the buttons on the high neck of your blouse. “Do you want to see where I came from, Arthur?” you whisper harshly. His whole body tenses when you utter his name and looking up at you from under his hat, his eyes widen as your skin is revealed to him, his gaze darting down to where your fingers unbutton the material just above the edges of your chemise. “What the hell are you doin’ woman?” he shouts, an incredulous look peering out from under his bandana. “You really seem to know me so well, don’t you Arthur?” you spit, keeping your eyes focused on his as he stands dumbfounded at your display. Rolling back the high collar of your blouse, the dark red bruises that mar your neck are revealed. Clear marks of where two hands had wrapped themselves around your throat and pressed, very hard. “Jesus,” John whispers out, averting his gaze to the floor while Arthur just stares at the marks on your neck, eyes unreadable. _What am I doing!?_ your mind screams. _He is an outlaw, he is robbing me and he will kill me_ _before Felix gets the chance_ _! Shut up!_ Moving purely on adrenaline, you were in too deep to stop now.

“You clearly know everything about me and my reason for being where I am today!” you rage, your voice getting louder and angrier as you move to the buttons by your wrists, rolling back your sleeve and presenting more yellowed bruises and angry welts where your wrists had clearly been bound. The scabbed wounds now re-opened and oozing light red blood from when Arthur grabbed you. Silent tears were now spilling down your face and using your cuff, you rubbed at your right eye, the face powder you had used as a cover coming off on your sleeve along with your tears. A black ring circles your eye, a mark of another beating. “Evidently I am a stupid woman to want to run from this life of _privilege_ that I am so blessed to have!” you snap, your fury bubbling over. “So go on and take my bag Arthur Morgan and get lost!” you yell, jabbing a finger towards him. “I don’t need another pissant like you telling me how I should live my life!”

The carriage is silent and Arthur is frozen to the spot, his gaze lingering on the red marks around your wrists. John keeps his eyes cast to the ground, not knowing where to look. “Arthur,” Charles calls from the carriage door, breaking the tension that has settled. “Someone is coming. We have to leave. Now.” Snapping out of his trance, Arthur finishes closing the bag and hoists it under his arm, stalking out of the carriage without a backward glance. John avoids your eyes but tips his hat awkwardly towards you as he follows after Arthur and Charles.

The remaining passengers in the carriage look on in silence with a mixture of pity and horror, your bruises on display to them all. Your legs wobble as the rush of adrenaline leaves you and hearing the three men scrabble down the tracks, you numbly follow their exit and see them mount their horses and gallop away from the train, soon lost from sight in pitch black night. Clutching the railing you sink down, skirts puddling underneath you. Any strength you had left completely gone after your outburst. You finally let your silent tears find a voice as a choking sob bubbles out of your throat that is soon turned into racking cries as the events of the last 48 hours start to unravel before you. Your face is wet and your breath is ragged as you calm down enough to think straight. _I have one bar left. It will be enough to do something_ , you concede. However Arthur’s words from earlier ring in your head. _Maybe he was right_ , you lament. _Maybe I am a fool for thinking I can start a new life_ _on my own_ _._ Shaking your head fiercely, you refuse to let the words of that man, no, that outlaw affect you. He stalked you like a wolf and waited for the right time to strike, stealing your freedom from you and leaving you where you are now; stranded on a train in the middle of nowhere with your money and sole belongings stolen, and no next step. “Damn you, Arthur Morgan!” you cursed bitterly, hands clenched into fists.


	5. Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> Back with another chapter that is, well, it's long... I hope you get as much joy out of reading it as I got out of writing it though!
> 
> Things are still going fairly shite for both our reader and for Arthur and post train heist they both have a lot to mull over, but soon they will be reunited in what I'm hoping will turn out to be both wonderful and delicious angst/love.
> 
> Thank you all for your wonderful kudos and comments. It really means so much to me to know that people are actively reading and taking time to give feedback. You lot are the best! <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> x

Three silhouettes on horseback thunder up the crest of the hill, moonlight revealing the landscape around them. The light coming from the train in the distance behind them cuts a snaking line across the plains. Arthur leads the trio until Charles’ horse cuts across his, forcing his mount to rear up in panic. “What the hell, Charles!” he shouts, trying to calm his horse with a firm pat on the neck. “You tryin’ to break my neck!?” He briefly meets Charles' stern gaze and looks down immediately, a silent judgment emanating from his friend. John pulls up just behind Charles and looks on silently as Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his saddle under their scrutiny. “What?” Arthur sneers at them as he opens your bag, counting out 6 heavy gold bars nestled in amongst your belongings. Tossing a bar to each man, he hesitates before shoving one into his satchel. “Go on an’ get back to camp,” he mutters, flicking his hand their direction. “Take a long route and make sure no one follows you!”

The silence stretches on for a beat longer. “Are you sure about this, Arthur?” Charles speaks, his voice low and calm as if trying to tame a wild animal. John blusters in, waving his hand back to the carriage, his voice incredulous, “Yeah, Arthur. That woman looks like she has been through hell and you’re still just gonna rob her blind? I thought we didn’t do that kinda stuff anymore!” Gritting his teeth, Arthur tamps down any rebuttal he has forming on his lips, the words of his friends starting to chip away at this dark wall he has built up around himself since Blackwater. Clenching the reins tightly in his hands, he turns his horse away from his fellow outlaws. “Just get back to camp!” he calls out over his shoulder and kicks his mount into a gallop, leaving behind Charles and John, the carriage and the woman, but the knot settling into his stomach follows him.

He canters hard through the night, no destination in mind. He can’t face going back to camp yet. It’s bad enough having Charles and John challenging him on his decisions but he didn’t have enough patience left to answer Dutch’s prying questions about the job.  _Dutch is countin’ on me to get the big money in and I don’t need them thinkin’ they know better when it comes to a job like this_ , he reasons with himself. _They ain’t got a clue how serious things are for us right now._ He rides on in the silence of the night, the rhythm of the hoofbeats lulling his growing unease and feeling calmer, he starts to ride back in the direction of the camp, thinking over what to say to Dutch. _I’ll just tell him it was an easy heist_ , he considers. _That it was a payroll on the train and that I got the tip from some drunk in the Saloon in Valentine,_ _say that Uncle got mixed up on who we was takin’ the gold from_ _._ Feeling a small sense of justification at his reasoning, he approaches the road to the camp. The sudden and unwarranted vision of your small and delicate wrists flash behind his eyes and he sucks in a breath. The marks of your bondage so bright and vivid against your pale skin; the tears sliding down your face and those beautiful green eyes that had looked so bright when he caught a moment with you boarding the train now looked at him coldly. He shakes his head to dispel the image but a fierce self-loathing bubbles up in him. Arthur knew he was a bad man and convinced himself he always would be, but he felt like he had at least some morals. Those few morals seemed to leave him completely when he was taken in by the finery of your clothes and haughty sounding demeanour when dealing with Uncle. He thought you were too good for that much money. That it should be used for those who really needed it. He had completely misjudged your situation. Yes, you were a woman on the run, but not from a childish family spat, but from something far worse.

“When did I turn into a man like this,” he mutters to the wind. “Why did I even think robbin’ from her was a good idea in the first place.” He continues riding in silence, the final trail to the camp just over the rise.

 

Slumped against the carriage walls, the outlaws and your hope for a new start long gone, you move to gather yourself up when a commotion inside the carriage draws your attention. The woman from earlier is screaming again. “Where is she?” a voice hollers from within. Creeping your way to the door on your hands and knees, you peer around and at the far end, you see a broadly built man dressed in dark clothes and a bandana also pulled over his face. He points a gun to the head of a passenger who you see shakily pointing a finger in your direction. The stranger's gaze follows and lands on you, peering from your spot on the ground. “Thank ya kindly,” the stranger laughs as he fires his gun, blood spattering across the windows as the passenger’s body slumps to the floor. You cover your mouth to muffle a scream and stumble back from the door as the stranger stalks towards you, leaving boot marks of blood on the floor after him. His gait is almost predatory, his glare severe.

Without thinking, you find yourself moving to get away. Clambering down the steps of the train you lose your footing on the ballast and tumble down the side of the tracks into a heap, cursing as you feel the stones rip the skin on your legs. You’re on your feet in an instant and your running as fast as you can away from the train, skirt folds fisted in your hands and legs pumping. “Oh, I love it when she runs!” the stranger cackles from behind you, his voice familiar. Panic overtakes you when you hear him slide down the ballast and give chase. You can’t see anything in front of you, your eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness of the night and your feet stumbling over the uneven grassland. The sound of the man is getting closer and your lungs burn at the exertion. _Keep running_ , you think. _He might not be able to see me_ _eith_ _—_ _._ You are tackled to the ground and you let you a strangled scream as you try to struggle back to your feet. “Oh you ain’t goin’ anywhere Miss,” he sneers as flips you on to your back, straddling your hips.

Scrabbling your hands in the dirt for anything to use as a weapon, your fingers fall on a stone. You fling your arm across with all your strength and make contact with your attackers face. He is momentarily distracted, clutching his face and cursing you. You try to reach for his pistol holstered at his waist and he has both of your wrists gripped tightly in his right hand in an instant. The raw wounds sting as you can feel the skin tear in his grip. The back of his left-hand snaps your head to the side and you feel your lip burst, blood trickling down your face. Your ears are ringing as he leans over you, face close to yours. “Oh, you’re such a wild one ain’t ya!” he leers as he runs a calloused finger down your exposed neck. “Mr. Buchanan really does have his hands full with you, don’t he?” Your heart seizes and suddenly you know this man’s voice, how could you not. Hector always seemed to be found right behind Felix, like his shadow, ready to take any order no matter what it was, no questions asked. You knew Felix was a sociopath but he also had to act the part of a rich man’s son in high society circles. Hector was just a sociopath and would happily do the work that Felix couldn’t be seen to do for proprieties sake. Felix called him his own personal enforcer and clearly, he knew you had escaped. “Hector, please don’t do this,” you utter quietly, your breath barely able to reach your lungs. “You could just let me go and tell Felix you couldn’t find me. I could—I could pay you!”

“Now Mrs. Buchanan, you know very well that I take my orders from your husband and your husband only,” he chuckles mirthlessly. His weight lifts off you and you are forcefully pushed onto your stomach, your head swimming. Pressing his knee to your back, a cry forces itself out of your mouth as a stab of pain jolts through you. He wrenches your arms back behind you and a hard rope is wrapped around your wrists. You struggle against him, but he presses his knee harder into your back and leans towards you again. “You can’t be tellin’ me what to do,” he mutters, as he moves to hog tie your legs. “Only Mr. Buchanan can and he can’t wait for you to return. He told me he has a surprise in store for you,” he leers.

The mention of being sent back into the clutches of Felix has a cold, hard fear settle you’re your stomach. “No, Hector, please!” you plead, struggling fruitlessly against your bonds. “He won’t want me back! He’ll just kill me!” your voice now rambling, the reality of your situation hits you with full force. “Maybe that’s what the surprise is, Mrs. Buchanan. I don’t really care what he does to ya, I’m just doing what is ordered of me,” Hector says, his voice stony.

He lifts you from the ground and throws you over his shoulder carrying you back towards the now deserted train carriage, the passengers no doubt fleeing after he shot that poor man in cold blood. You can’t help the frustrated sob that spills from your mouth as he throws you on to the back of his horse. “Fuck you, Hector” your voice stutters as you look up at him. “Are you just going to listen to him? Can’t you think for yourself? You’re just a puppet for that man and he doesn’t care a tap about you!” Chuckling, he pulls off his bandana and gripping your face firmly in his hand, he forces it into your mouth. You wince in pain as your split lip is pulled against the fabric and gag as a sickly taste of stale sweat coats your tongue. “Now Miss, that ain’t a nice way to speak to me. I just rescued you from those terrible bandits who robbed that there train,” he says, gesturing behind him. “Mr. Buchanan is gonna give me a big reward for bringing you back to him safely so I’m gonna need you to be nice an’ quiet as we have a bit of a ride and I don’t want you drawin’ any more attention than necessary.” Looking up at him, a crude smirk pulls across his ruddy, bearded face. “You’re gonna be back home real soon,” he laughs as he pushes your face away. Mounting his horse he gallops away and you watch as the line of light from the train grows smaller by every second, the pit in your stomach growing even larger. _I’m_ _never_ _going to escape_ _this life, am I_ , you think, frustrated tears pooling in your eyes.

 

It was late into the night when Arthur arrives back to the camp and all were asleep, with the exception of Lenny who was on watch. Pulling himself out of his saddle, Arthur tends to his horse despite the hour, making sure she was brushed down and saddle removed before taking himself and the bag across to his tent on the far side of the camp. _Dutch can wait until morning for this_ , he thinks tiredly as he drops the bag to the ground, scrubbing a hand over his face. Placing his gun belt and hat on the table, Arthur sits heavily onto his bed, the wood creaking. Leaning back against the side of the wagon he lets a deep sigh pass his lips. Images of your bruised neck and torn wrists had plagued him for the rest of the ride back to camp. His eyes flicker down to the bag at his feet and he closes them tightly. _I did what I had to_ , he thinks darkly. _I did what I had to, for my family_. Lying back on his cot, he swings an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the image of your fiery green eyes glaring up at him with pure disdain.

Arthur wakes, feeling just as exhausted as he did when he eventually fell asleep. Hoisting himself up with a groan, he grabs the bag and brings it to Dutch who is standing at the edge of his tent, steaming coffee cup in hand. “Ah, my boy!” Dutch calls out, clapping him on the shoulder and looking to the bag in his grip “I see that last night's impromptu train robbery was a success?” Silently, Arthur sets the bag on the table and opens it for Dutch. Moving aside your skirts and blouses, Arthur pulls out the three remaining gold bars and places them on the table, the glow reflecting brightly in Dutch’s eye. “Oh my son, this was good work. Very good work indeed,” Dutch laughs, picking up a bar in his hand and feeling the weight of it. “This will help us, won’t it, Dutch?” Arthur asks, eyes to the ground, hand rubbing hard against the back of his neck. “I mean, this will make a difference for the gang, for our family, right?”

“Of course it will Arthur,” Dutch says placidly, placing the bar back on the table with a clink. “We can use this to get ourselves back on our feet. Use this money to get us closer to our dream.” Hosea walks up at that moment to join the men, slapping Arthur on the back. “You seem very worked up for what should be a celebration, Arthur,” the older man’s says, concern in his voice. “Did something happen during the heist? John and Charles came back first, but didn’t say anything on the matter.” Looking between Dutch and Hosea, his surrogate fathers, Arthur opens his mouth to speak, to tell them exactly what he did, but the words die on his lips. A deep shame floods him then and puffing out a sigh Arthur shakes his head, casting his eyes again to the ground. “No, it went fine,” he mumbles. “We got the gold and got out before the law showed up.”

 

You wake with a start and immediately feel disorientated, the morning light harsh against your aching eyes. Shaking your head to clear the dull throbbing in your head, you take in your surroundings. Tall trees fringe the edge of Hector’s camp and sway gently in the morning breeze. The rising sun has yet to take the night’s chill out of the air and you suppress a shiver as the cold touches on your bare neck. Hector is nowhere to be seen, but his horse was off to your right, idly grazing a patch of grass. Groaning, you stretch your legs out in front of you, the stiffness making your joints pop.

You weren’t sure how long you had ridden for after he threw you over the back of his mount, but it was still dark when he had slowed his gallop and led the horse off the road, through the brush and trees to his makeshift camp. Snippets of moonlight revealed a lean-to set up under the shelter of a rock formation and the ashes of a cold fire. Without uttering a word he had roughly lifted you from the horse and dumped you on the ground next to a stump of a long dead tree. You had let out a painful groan as he firmly manhandled you into a sitting position against it. He had quickly untied you and stretched your arms behind you, to bind them firmly together again, the nobbled bark of the tree stump pressed uncomfortably against your back.

Hector had crouched down next to you, sinister shadows playing across his face, as he ran a finger down your cheek and pulled the bandana free from your mouth. “Don’t want ya goin’ anywhere, darlin’,” he breathed. “I gotta be sure I can get ya back to Mr. Buchanan.” Your stomach roiled at the touch as you pulled your face away and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the dark look that clouded his features. The cold night air made your body shiver, your thin clothes, which were no match against the elements and also the dread that was uncurling in your stomach. Hector was taking you back to Felix and there was literally nothing you could do about it. He stood back and pulled a blanket from the pack on his horse. He tucked it up around your shoulders and ran a hand over your hair and his fingers rested almost affectionately on your cheek. “Sleep well, Sweet-pea,” he cooed. “You’ll be home very soon to your beloved.” He moved away then and went to his bedroll and lay down. Taking shaky breaths, you had watched him closely, the shadows of the night outlined the rise and fall of his chest as sleep eventually took him. You tested your bonds but the rope as firmly tied. _Dammit!_ you thought darkly, tears pricking your eyes. Seeing no other option, you tucked yourself in as small as possible to keep warm and soon your head lolled towards your knees as your own fatigue overtook you.

You’re pulled from your thoughts as your arms are suddenly freed from the stump. Slumping to the side, your gasp in pain as the blood starts to flow through your veins again. You try to flex your fingers but they’re rigid from the bonds and the cold. The pain is too much. Gently cupping them close to your chest, you whimper at the returning sensation. “Time to rise an’ shine Mrs Buchanan,” Hector says as he pulls you to your feet. You push against him and stumble away as the feeling returns to your legs. Backing away quickly from the man, putting the meagre campfire between you and him, you frantically look for an escape. “Get away from me, Hector,” you croaked harshly, your voice scratched and raw from thirst, the cut on your lip has painfully scabbed over and stings when you speak. “Now now, Mrs Buchanan. I don’t got no time to be teachin’ you manners on how to be a good house guest,” he cackles, gesturing to his camp. “We gotta be getting you back to Mr Buchanan today!”

Seeing a water skin on the ground, you snatch it up and drink deeply, your eyes watching Hector’s bemused smirk under his thick beard, thumbs looped through his belt. “I’m not going back to him,” you spit, throwing the empty skin aside, flexing feeling back into your fingers. Looking wildly around Hector’s camp, you see that you’re near the top of a small rise, with trees running down in all directions. You back further away from Hector as he starts towards you, glancing over your shoulder at the sloping hill behind you. “Don’t even try it Miss,” Hector speaks quietly, the smirk vanishing from his face. His hand moves to rest on the grip of his revolver. “You’re coming back with me or not at all.” You freeze when you hear the intent in his voice, your eyes darting to where his hand rests. _I_ _f I run, he will_ _definitely_ _shoot me in the back_ , you think as a frustrated rage bubbles in your stomach. _He could easily lie to Felix and say I was killed by the bandits on the train_. There was definitely no escaping this man, you knew that now. Slumping your shoulders in defeat at the thought and as if sensing your vanishing confidence, Hector is by your side in an instant and is gripping your wrists together tightly as he binds a length of rope around them _._ “Now ain’t this much easier Mrs Buchanan,” Hector says, his twisted smile returns as he ties your wrists again, this time in front of you. “You just sit yourself down there while I get us ready to bring you home.” He not so gently pushes you to the ground by the campfire, chuckling as he wags a finger at you. “Don’t think about movin’ or I’ll shoot you, Miss. I won’t hesitate.”

You look up at his face, his smile not reaching his cold eyes and you numbly nod your head. Hector quickly breaks down his camp and begins packing everything on to his horse. You sit quietly on the ground, staring into the smouldering embers as your mind flits over the events of the last two days. You’re exhausted, hungry and you ache all over. Your wrists feel slick and sting fiercely, the bonds grating against the re-opened wounds. You had everything planned out so well from the beginning; from getting the stable hand at Felix’s estate to rustle up a stagecoach in the middle of the night and helping you with your bag and getting to Valentine station. Everything seemed to go horribly wrong when you encountered the drunken buffoon and the bandit.

_How soon did he know I had gold in that bag to set up such an elaborate train robbery,_ you wondered grimly. _Was it when he helped me put the bag on the train? No, it couldn’t have been as he wouldn’t have had any way to tell his gang._ Your thoughts towards the man grew more sour with every second. _He must have sent that no good drunk to scout out my bag! He did grab the handles, maybe he asked him to try help and then sent him off to arrange the robbery_ , you fumed, gripping your bound hands into fists. _That means he waited all day_ _at the station_ _, waited_ _while I fell asleep for hours only_ _to help me put the bag on the train. Why didn’t he just rob me then and there?_ Bitter tears drip down your face as you feel your lips pull into a grimace. _No good has come of me since he crossed my path_. _I’m being taken back to what I was doing my best to escape from, all because of him!_

“Time to go, Mrs Buchanan,” Hector proclaims as he hoists you to your feet. Looking at the tears plastered down your cheeks, he makes a face. “Now why are ya cryin’ Miss? This should be a joyous time for you. You get to be reunited with your husband!” He says all of this as his grip on your arms tighten painfully. You yelp as his thumbs push deep into your skin and he shoves your forcefully towards his horse and stalks closely behind. “A joyous time indeed, Miss!”

 

After speaking with Dutch and Hosea, Arthur spends the rest of the day in camp and was glad when they had left soon after he passed over the gold to check out some leads for a job. He had caught the wary glance Hosea had thrown Dutch after he hastily answered their follow up questions, avoiding any mention of you or why the gold was in a bag full of women’s clothes. In an attempt to distract himself from his morose mood, he became the camps greatest helper. He chopped wood; moved sacks of grain over to Pearson’s wagon and even helped the women with their chores by hauling buckets of water from the nearby stream for their laundry. He continued well into the morning, intently moving from task to task until the sun was high over the sky. He had dropped the last bale of hay to the horses and was wiping away the sheen of sweat that was building on his brow with a rag. Heaving a sigh, he could feel a scowl pulling down on his features as his mind began to wander back to you.

“You OK Arthur?” a voice from behind startles him. Turning he sees Tilly looking up at him with concern laced across her features. “You wanna talk?”

“I, ah, I -,” Arthur stutters before his shoulders slump and he nods to Tilly. “Yes.” Smiling gently, Tilly leads him towards the side of the camp where she, Karen and Mary-Beth share a space. Sitting on a crate, she folds her hands together in her lap while looking over Arthur’s haggard features. She knew he had been pushing himself so hard since Colter, but something else was weighing on him, something different. “What’s been goin’ on with you?” she asks gently as he sags onto the crate beside her. “I don’t know,” he huffs, shaking his head. “I been actin’ kinda crazy.” Tilly looks over him, his shoulders hunched and tense. “How so?” she asks patiently. Arthur grips his hands into fists and releases them along with a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. “I’ve been killin’ an stealin’... a lot, I mean, from innocent folk,” he confesses, his eyes darting to meet hers. “I don’t know why.”

“Yeah, that's bad, Arthur... that's real bad,” Tilly says, nodding her head gently. He lowers his eyes from hers then and his mouth draws a firm line as the memory of your hate-filled voice runs through his head. “I know...I just... well... you know me,” he continues, his voice faltering slightly.

“Sure, I know you. But then you go act all crazy,” Tilly says kindly. She sympathises with the man and the pressure he must feel being Dutch’s enforcer. Deep down she knows he is a good man, he has always been nothing but kind to the women in the camp, but lately, she has noticed how erratic his behaviour has been.

Rubbing his hand roughly on the back of his neck, he looks out across the landscape. “But I’ve always been crazy,” he laments, but Tilly quickly cuts him off. “No you haven't,” she says, her voice firmer. Thinking back over the previous night, the voice in the back of his head kept niggling that his actions were not like him. “Maybe Micah put a spell on me,” he suggests but Tilly quickly adds, “And maybe you’re just being a fool.”

“Ah there’s always just that,” he huffs a laugh and lowers his head. _Maybe I am just bein’ a fool about all of this_ , he thinks to himself _._

Looking behind her, Tilly spots Charles walking across the camp. “Charles,” she calls out, waving him over. “Can you please take this fool of a man out of camp before he is sittin’ with us girls washin’ Uncle’s union suits? I think he has helped around here enough for today.”

Charles stops in front of them and looks down at Arthur who keeps his head low, his hat shielding him from the man’s silent gaze. “Sure, Tilly. C’mon Arthur, lets go,” he gestures towards the horses at the hitching posts. “Pearson needs some more game anyway so I could use another set of hands.” Puffing out his held breath, Arthur nods his thanks towards Tilly and sets about following Charles who is saddling up his horse. Soon both men are thundering out of the camp as Tilly looks on. “I hope you haven’t been too much of a fool, Arthur,” she says quietly to herself.

 

Dutch and Hosea ride side by side through the woodland past Strawberry, chatting amiably with each other of good times past. Dutch was checking out a potential lead and insisted that Hosea come with him, his grifter skills useful for getting information when needed. Heading back towards camp, the two men decided to take their time and enjoy the change of scenery after the cold of the Grizzlies, Hosea noting that Dutch seemed calmer now that he was away from the folk in camp. It’s true that everyone needed a break from time to time. _I must get Arthur to take a break too. Take him out hunting_ _some bears_ , the old man thinks to himself. _Something about that train robbery has him shaken_.

He was brought out of his thoughts as Silver Dollar’s ear twitched at a rustling noise up ahead and both men’s hands fly to their pistols as you burst through the overgrowth and stumble to the dirt. Hosea has his gun out and pointing at you as scrabble awkwardly to your feet; hands still tied at your front. You frantically look behind you and a scream rips from your lips as the shot of a gun sounds, the bark on the tree close to you splintering with a crack. You turn to run and stumble when you see two imposing men on horseback, their guns pointing at you. “Please,” you pant, shakily holding your bound hands up. “Please help... he is trying to... he is going to kill me.” No sooner did the words leave your mouth did Hector crash through where you had just come from, gun in hand and a vicious snarl on his lips. “You bitch!” he spat, as he thundered towards you but stopped short when he noticed the two men on horseback, their guns now pointing at him.

“I think you will want to be lowering that gun, friend,” the dark-haired man says, his voice a cold, deep baritone. Hector looks darkly at both men and back to where you are standing in-between their mounts. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that this here is none of your business,” he grits out, his gun still pointed at you. “It be best if you move along.”

“I’m afraid it becomes our business when a pretty young lady asks for our help,” the dark-haired man chuckles, his voice turning icy again as he continues. “Especially one who is tied up, beaten and bruised. So I’ll say it again, friend, lower your gun and walk away.” Hector glares at each man, uncertainty now showing in his eyes as he takes a step forward. The hammer on both their pistols clicks in to place and you hold your breath, the air suddenly grown heavy.

“Oh, I would listen to him if I were you my good man,” Hosea says to Hector, nodding his head towards Dutch. “He won’t ask you this kindly a second time.” Turning his attention back to you, Hosea motions you around to the side of this mount. “Come now my dear, let’s get you up and somewhere safe.” You slink away from the showdown between Hector and the dark-haired man and the older man with grey hair pulls you up behind him on his mount. Hands still bound, you grip tightly to the back of his coat as he moves his mount to a gentle walk. “Stop!” Hector bellows at the advancing men, gun still held firmly in his hand. “She is coming with me and you...” His voice is cut off with a crack of a gun and a piercing howl from Hector as the dark haired man shoots the gun from his hand, taking several fingers along with it. “I did warn you,” the grey-haired man in front of you chuckles mirthlessly as their mounts step past Hector who is kneeling on the ground, keening over his ruined hand, blood gushing from the wound onto the dirt road. The dark haired man gruffly holsters his pistol and kicks his horse into a gallop without saying another word. You twist around as the two men pick up speed to see Hector’s form still bent over and his moans becoming fainter. The two men ride on in silence until clear of the woodland and the plains open out in front of them. Slowing their horses to a stop, the grey-haired man helps you down from his mount. Your knees give out when they hit the ground and he steadies you with a firm grip on your shoulders. “Thank you, Mister,” you say quietly and he smiles at you as he gently pats you on the shoulder. The dark haired man dismounts and walks towards you, looking carefully over you, taking in your messed hair and split lip; your blouse that is ripped and dirtied with bruises marking your neck and your torn dress which thankfully isn’t so bad that you are exposing your legs. He stops in front of you and pulls a knife from his gun belt and seeing the blade glittering in the sunlight, you take an involuntary step back. _These men saved me from Hector, but how do I know their intention isn’t any better?_ you think as you look over the blade with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation.

The dark haired man reaches out and grabs your arm tightly before slicing through the ropes with ease. You inhale sharply as they fall away from your wrists leaving the red, raw skin free. Gasping at the new sensation, you gently hold your arms to yourself and look up at the dark haired man. “Thank you too, Mister,” you say as he sheaths the blade back in his belt. “I’m happy to offer my service, my dear,” he says, with a small flourish. “Now before we go any further, can I ask how you ended up in this... predicament, Miss...?”

Looking over the two men, you weigh up your situation. They saved you from certain death at Hector’s hands and have released you from bondage. They are standing at a respectful distance and at this point, you have little choice but to put your trust in them. Taking in a deep breath, you roll your shoulders back and offer your hand to him with a slight tremor. “Miss Clarke,” you say, meeting your gaze with his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” A sparkle catches in his eyes and he claps his hands together looking over to his grey-haired partner. “Hosea would you look at that!” he booms. “She still has this air to her even though she looks as if she has been dragged through hell! That’s perseverance! That’s strength!”

He takes your hand and raises it to his lips. “Dutch van der Linde, at your service, my dear Miss Clarke. And this here is my good friend Hosea Matthews,” he says, gesturing to the grey-haired man beside you. You nod your head and bob a curtsy in his direction, a small smile pulling at your lips. Although you have only met these men, you feel comforted by their presence; a fatherly protectiveness emanating from them both, making you feel safe for the first time in days, months even. “Miss Clarke, it will soon be dark and I think it best if we continue on back to our camp,” Dutch says as he looks over the rolling plains stretching out in front of you. “It’s not far from here and we can offer you food and shelter for the night and in the morning we can help you get where you need to be.” Weariness from the last two days has finally caught up with you and the thought of a hot meal and somewhere safe to sleep was too alluring. “Mr. Van der Linde, thank you. Those words are the best I’ve heard in the last few days,” you say as you flash a smile at him.

“Then let's get home,” Dutch says as he swings himself back up into his saddle. Hosea helps you back up on his horse and pulls himself into his saddle. “I think you will like it Miss Clarke,” he says amiably. “The folk we run with, their good people”. Gripping on to the back of his coat, you breathe a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad of it Mr Matthews,” you say. “The folk I’ve dealt with over the last two days have been some of the worst.”


	6. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our reader settles into camp and finally feels at ease, well until her and our cowboah are reunited!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> A new chapter today, somewhat a filler but I hope you enjoy it as I'm not sure if I'm totally happy with it myself. 
> 
> It gave me a bit of grief writing it cos, you know, life stuff happened and totally zapped my imagination, but I got it in the direction I want it to go so bonus, excellent! :D 
> 
> Thanks a mill for reading  
> <3 x

Arthur blows out a frustrated breath as the arrow goes wide and knocks against a nearby rock. Startled, the deer him and Charles had been tracking for much of the afternoon bolts, running elegantly through the stream and disappearing into the wood. “Dammit,” Arthur sighs as he turns back to face Charles who stands up from his crouch. “I ain’t never gonna get used to using this thing.”

“You will Arthur,” Charles says as he walks towards him taking the bow from the outlaw. “You just need patience and a calm mind, both of which you don’t seem to have today.” Arthur casts his eyes down and moves to turn away, but Charles rests a firm hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Arthur,” he says, his voice managing to calm the ire that Arthur feels building up in him. “What happened during that robbery is over. You can’t go back and change the past.” Shrugging off his hand, Arthur looks to the ground, his mouth set in a firm line as he tries to work out what to say. He was never good with words. He knows that Tilly sent him away with Charles to clear his head, but damn, he is finding it hard to explain to his friend what exactly disturbed him the most about last nights job. “It’s getting late,” Charles says, sensing the outlaw's discomfort. “We should make camp for the night and see if we can get another deer in the morning.”

Sitting around the glowing flames of their campfire, Arthur takes another swig from the bottle of whiskey. Charles had presented it soon after they had eaten their share of a rabbit they had snared. “Alcohol seems to be the best way you outlaws can work out your emotions,” Charles says with a small laugh. “Yeah,” Arthur says, a sad smile playing on his lips as he passes the bottle back to Charles. “Sometimes it seems like the only way.” He looks intently at the flames as they lick over a fresh log, the effects of the whiskey loosening his thoughts. “I – I never meant to...,” he starts, his voice faltering slightly. “I mean, I wouldn’t have tried to steal from her if I knew she was running from gettin’ beaten. I thought she was just some rich woman tryin’ to prove a point.” Charles says nothing for a moment, thinking back on the scene he was met with on the carriage; Arthur standing dumbstruck in front of the woman, her clothing pulled back to an almost scandalous level revealing a myriad of bruises, bright against her pale skin. It was her face that lingers in his mind the most; defiant. Defiant and very very angry. “I’m sure it was an easy mistake to make, Arthur,” he says, taking a swig from the bottle. “She seemed like a woman who had to become very good at hiding her real emotions.” Taking the bottle from Charles’ outstretched hand, Arthur huffs a laugh, “Oh, she sure surprised me. I didn’t expect all those curses to come from such a high society lookin’ lady.” He pauses for a beat, “Or all those damn bruises. What kind of person does that?” he says hotly, the memory of your raw, bloodied wrists back to the forefront of his mind again.

“Clearly a weak man; a monster, but she was strong, Arthur. Strong enough that she managed to get away from him and I’m sure she had somewhere to go, despite running into us. A woman like that will always get where she needs to be,” Charles says firmly, trying to pull the outlaw from his morose mood. Arthur looks at him then, an almost pitiful look in his eyes. “How do you know for sure that – that she will be alright?” Charles pauses for a beat, looking over the self-described _bad man_ who is currently torturing himself over the fate of someone he robbed. “I know,” he says slowly, “because she really was lettin’ you have it by the time I got there. If we hadn’t of left when we did, I was worried she would have throttled you.” Arthur lets low chuckle rumble through him and nods his head. “She might well have,” he says, taking another swig of the whiskey. “Almost as bad as Miss Grimshaw, she was.”

The heat of the morning sun burns away the lingering mists of the previous night, the signs of another hot day in sight and Arthur grunts as he lifts the buck up on to his shoulder. Making his way back to where Charles and his horse are waiting, he ties the deer to the back of his mount. The two men had worked silently for much of the early morning after tearing down their camp at dawn. Arthur had felt lighter when he woke, his talk with Charles easing his inner demons somewhat. While Charles is not a man of many words when he did speak Arthur found his insight calming and his logic sound. He knew what he had to do now and was eager to get back to camp and speak to Dutch and Hosea. “Pearson should be happy with this,” Charles says, gesturing to the two deer, one slung over the rear of each mount. “Doesn’t mean it’ll make the food taste any better,” Arthur says with a laugh as he mounts his horse and leads it towards the road back to camp.

 

A steaming mug of coffee is pressed into your hands and you eagerly wrap your stiff fingers around it, the heat bringing a soothing relief. “Thank you, Miss Jackson,” you say, your voice a hoarse whisper. “You’re welcome, Miss Clarke,” she says, “But please, call me Tilly.”

“Miss Clarke, Dutch was tellin’ us how they found you out in the woods,” says the other woman who Dutch had introduced as Mary-Beth. She pulls her shawl tightly around her shoulders, eyes flickering over your bruised face and busted lip. “I can’t believe that man chasin’ ya had you tied up and everythin’. My gosh, you were so lucky!”

“Yes, I suppose was,” you say quietly, looking down self consciously at the white strips of cloth wrapped around your wrists. As soon as you had arrived in the camp, you were whisked away by Miss Grimshaw, who you gathered was in charge of the camp for all the orders she was barking at the other women. She had led you to her tent and swiftly tended to your wounds. “I do believe I would be dead if it weren’t for Mr. van der Linde and Mr. Matthews,” you say to the women and you spot the knowing look that crosses their faces. _It seems I’m not the first person they have_ _helped out of a bad situation_ , you think, the reality of your near misses with death and now such frank kindness from complete strangers hitting you harder than you expect. You bite down on your lip to stop it from trembling. “You have been through so much, Miss Clarke,” Dutch says beside you, sensing your distress. “But you’re still alive and you are safe with us.” You take a deep breath and nod an appreciating thanks to Dutch, Mary-Beth, and Tilly. “Sleep well, Miss Clarke?” a voice asks from behind you and you see Hosea amble towards the campfire pouring himself a mug of coffee. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Matthews,” you say, nodding your head towards the older man with a watery smile. “I think it was the best sleep I’ve had for a long time.”

You had been barely able to stay awake after Miss Grimshaw fixed your wounds and fed you a bowl of hearty stew, the culmination of events had come crashing down on you. Miss Grimshaw and Dutch had gently led you to a tent set to the side of the camp. “Miss Clarke, I’m going to let you use my boy's tent,” Dutch said, gesturing to the pile of blankets and furs on a raised cot. “He is out huntin’ for a few days and won’t be needing it and I know it might not be what you’re used to, but it’s the best we have in our little camp.” You looked over the bed with a pure want that only comes with complete exhaustion.

You had crashed hard, asleep before your head hit the pillow and had awoken just after dawn with a start, your mind groggy and disorientated at first. You calmed your beating heart when you realised you were safely wrapped up in your borrowed bunk. _I’m not in Felix’s estate; not faced with that damn outlaw and not tied to a tree with Hector looming over me,_ you had thought with a sleepy relief, wrapped up in the warm blankets that held a musky smell of leather and gun oil. _I’m safe, at last_. The smell of the blankets tickled something in the back of your mind, but you were soon lulled back into a dreamless slumber before you could think on it any further. The murmur of voices had drawn you awake a few hours later and you carefully pushed yourself up from the cot, groaning quietly as your muscles creaked. Wrapping a thin blanket from the cot over your shoulders, you joined the figures standing around the campfire, introductions made by Dutch.

 

Leading you now towards a makeshift table behind Dutch’s tent, Hosea sits and gestures for you to join him. “Miss Clarke,” he says with a smile. “We promised we would help you get back on your feet, but please tell us, how you ended up in such a mess?” Sitting beside both men, your fingernail worrying the edge of your mug, you try to quell the range of emotions fighting to the fore. _Where do I even start?_ you think mirthlessly to yourself.  _Felix; the Monster; Arthur; the Crook or Hector; the Creep_. “Miss Clarke, despite all that you have been through, there is a strength in you that makes you a fighter,” Dutch says as he places a firm hand on your shoulder “Don’t forget that!” You feel emboldened by his words and Dutch is not surprised to find that the layers of worry, fear, and loneliness that shrouded you on your flight from that bounty hunter have started to fall away. A look of hope glimmers now in your eyes.

You had decided to start your story from the beginning; your forced marriage to Felix and how you had run after months of abuse and imprisonment. You soon shared the story of your theft, your voice becoming fiery as you told how the outlaw had treated you almost like prey, watching and waiting until he robbed you. It was at that point both men had interjected, unable to keep their opinions quiet. “My God, Miss Clarke,” Hosea says, his face pulled into a grimace. “How despicable to steal from a lone woman.”

“Sounds like the work of some damned O’Driscoll!” Dutch says, his hand slapping against the makeshift table. As you continued on with your story, both men shared a wary look when you explained Hector's relationship with Felix and how he was sent to find you, dead or alive. “Miss Clarke, I would insist that you stay with us if your husband has men like that in his employ,” Dutch says, his voice stern. “It is very likely that he is still searching for you and any of the towns nearby could be crawling with his people.”

“If that’s what you want, of course,” Hosea adds. You look at both men, weighing up their offer. _Felix will never stop hunting me_ , you think darkly, a stab of dread piercing your heart. All you had were the clothes on your back; the gold bar that you still had safely tucked into your skirt pocket and no plan. Despite how vexed you feel thinking back on Arthur’s harsh words from the train, the course of the last few days has clearly highlighted how very naïve you are about how to survive on your own. I _don’t even know where_ _I_ _am_ _or where the closest town is_ , you think dismally. _But the offer of_ _food, shelter and the protection of these folk seems like the best and only option_ _I have right now_ _, especially since Felix will not stop until_ _I’m_ _back with him, dead or alive._ You blow out the breath you had been holding, your decision made.

“I would like that,” you say, a smile tugging the corner of your lips. “The staying here until I find my way I mean. It would – I would be very grateful to ask for your help once again.” Sitting back with a laugh, Dutch turns to Hosea, “I knew she would stay,” he smiles at the grey-haired man before turning back to you. “Now, Miss Clarke, first thing we need to do is get you clean clothes. I’ll fetch Miss Grimshaw and see if the women can spare anything for you.” With that, Dutch is striding across to where Miss Grimshaw stands smoking a cigarette at the edge of the camp. You meet Hosea’s eyes which crinkle with his smile. “I think you will like it here, Miss Clarke,” he says, his honest sincerity warming your heart. “Though you will have to help with the running of the camp. Everyone here has to contribute to the camp funds, do some chores and maybe help out in other activities later down the line.”

“I’m hoping there will be something I’m good at,” you say with an eager smile, the last veils of worry lifting from you. _I_ _’_ _ll_ _be safe_ _here!_ _I’ll be wanted here_ , you think, giddy at the thought of actually being useful, instead of a trophy to be owned. “My father raised me to do a bit of hunting and fishing if that’s any help?” You can’t help but chuckle lightly as Hosea immediately perks up at the mention of fishing. He looks to say more but Dutch returns then with a flourish and places a bag on the table in front of you and starts rummaging through it. “I think there should be something in here that might fit you, Miss Clarke,” he says as he pulls out some crumpled clothes. “Miss Grimshaw thinks they would fit your size.” Your smile falters the minute he set the bag on the table, the familiar embroidery of your missing bag shouting out to you. _What...why is this here?_ you think numbly, a loud buzzing noise staring in your ears. _Why is the bag stolen from me by that damned outlaw here!?_ Standing shakily you quickly back away from the table, putting some distance between you and the bag. “Where did you get that bag?” you quietly ask Dutch as he pulls out one of your blouses. “Oh I wouldn’t worry, dear,” Hosea says, a look of concern on his face. “It was just something we recently picked up on a job. Nobody will mind you taking them.”

A nervous laugh slips from your mouth as you look at your belongings sprawled across the table. _Something they picked up on_ a job _?_ you think incredulously, the truth hitting you like a train. _These are the_ _gang of people_ _that robbed me! These are the people that have almost ruined my life and I have somehow ended up back in their camp!_ You stagger back further, the blanket falling from your shoulders as you frantically look about for an escape. _I need to get out of here! Now!_

“Arthur, Charles, welcome back,” Hosea says behind you, his voice booming in your ears and your freeze on the spot, a sickening dread pooling in the pit of your stomach. “You boys have any luck on the hunt?” You can feel yourself flinch when the familiar smoky voice answers. “Yeah we got two bucks this mornin’ and a pheasant on the ride back to camp, but Hosea, can I talk with you an’ Dutch about _–,_ ” the voice falters and an icy trickle of fear runs down your spine. _It can’t be_ , you think numbly as you turn slowly. Your stomach drops as you’re faced with that damned outlaw, standing just a few feet away. He is no longer wearing his smart grey button down from the train but is now in a grimy blue shirt, the red streaks of deer's blood staining his shoulder and chest. You remember to breathe then and you shuffle back a few more steps, gripping your skirts into your hands. _It’s really him,_ you think incredulously. _This...this... damned_ outlaw _is one of them!_

He too is frozen to the spot, a look of shock on his face as he meets your eyes. _Why_ _is she here!?_ Arthur thinks frantically, the tempo of his heart rising as you look at him, your startling green eyes wide with a panicked shock. His eyes flit over you; still wearing the same clothes but now your cream blouse is bloodied and dirtied and your once crisp green skirts are torn and coated in a thick layer of dust and grime. Your hair is messily pulled away from your face and he notes your split lip and bruising around your mouth. _What the hell happened and why is she here,_ _in the camp_ _!?_

 

“Arthur, we have a new addition to the camp,” Hosea says, noticing the sudden change in outlaws mood. He gestures to you, but trails off, a look of concern on his face. “Miss Clarke, are you alright?” You keep your eyes locked with Arthur’s, a flicker of fury swelling deep in the pit of your stomach, pushing your mounting fear aside. _I am supposed to be safe here!_ you think, your anger building with every breath. _They promised me_ _they would help me and that I would be safe_ _here_ _but t_ _his_ crook _is one of them!_ Your lip pulls back into a snarl as you jab a finger in his direction. “You god damn bastard!” you shout as launch yourself towards him but are held back by Hosea’s firm grip on your shoulders, a look of bewilderment plastered on his face. “Miss Clarke,” he says, trying to meet your eyes, a fury raging in them. “I see you have met Arthur before?” You look at Hosea’s anxious face and push yourself away from his grasp. Stumbling back you try to put some distance between yourself and the other gang members who have gathered, drawn by the sound of your shouts. “Stay away from me,” you yell as Dutch tries to move closer, his arms spread wide in a pacifying manner. “Miss Clarke, please calm down,” he says firmly, confusion clearly visible on his face. “What is going on?”

“That’s him!” you shout hysterically, pointing to Arthur. “That’s the damned bastard who robbed me! He stole everything I had and he left me in the middle of nowhere with nothing! Left me to Hector!” Dutch stops in his tracks and looks across to Arthur who is standing painfully still, head down. “Arthur, is this true?” Dutch asks the outlaw, his voice serious. He heaves a deep sigh when Arthur remains silently looking to the ground, his face pulled into a grim scowl, fists clenched tightly by his side. Dutch turns to you then and a shiver runs down your spine, the warm face from earlier is now stern and cold. _Oh, Gods, they’re going to kill me!_ you think as you frantically look for a way out. _I_ _need to_ _get away from here!_ “Miss Clarke,” Dutch says again, his voice soothing, despite his stony expression. “Please come to my tent and let’s talk about this. I promise we won’t hurt you.” You’re shaking your head as you take another step backwards, “I don’t believe you,” you say, your voice quaking, pointing again to Arthur. “He ruined my life, how do I know you won’t do the same, or worse!”

“Miss Clarke, I promised you would be safe and I don’t break my promises,” he says as he holds a hand out to you. “So please, let us talk about this.” You look at him and then to the people gathered behind. Mary-Beth and Tilly stand huddled together, worry lining their faces as they look between you and Arthur. Hosea looks at you, a silent pleading in his eyes, nodding his head gently. You take in a shaky breath. _If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it when they first found me_ _and t_ _hey have helped other women in this camp, so maybe they won’t hurt me_ , you reason with yourself as you take a wary step closer to Dutch’s open hand. _And if I run, they might just shoot me in the back so_ _I don’t really have a choice_ _._ Placing your hand in his, Dutch gently leads you away from the group, skirting widely around Arthur who remains frozen to the spot, now watching you pass by, an unreadable expression on his face.

Shifting from where he was rooted to the spot, Arthur makes a move to leave before Dutch shouts over his shoulder, “Arthur, I want to talk to you too! Everyone else, you have jobs to be doing, so go do them!” The remaining gang members look on silently, watching as Dutch leads you away from them, Arthur following on his heels like a scolded child. Chuckles from some of the men in the camp ring out behind you and you catch a glance at Arthur but quickly look away; his face is cold and drawn, his eyes like flint. _Why the hell is he looking so mad_ , you think disbelievingly. _He was the one who robbed me, not the other way around!_ Once inside, Dutch gestures to the chair in the corner which you sit in, your heart hammering in your chest as you watch as Arthur closes the flaps of the tent at Dutch’s command. He moves away to stand beside Dutch but the dark-haired man points to the other chair across from yours. “You too, Arthur,” he says coldly and Arthur looks at him incredulously. “Dutch, I ain’t...-,” Arthur starts, but Dutch cuts across him. “Now, Arthur!” he shouts and you jump at the ferocity in his voice. Pressing his mouth into a firm line, Arthur drops himself into the chair, staring hard at the ground.

“Now, would one of you care to tell me what the hell is going on?” Dutch says, facing you both as he leans against the table, arms folded across his chest. You shrink down slightly, a shiver running over your skin at the intensity of his glare. You chance a quick glance across to Arthur who now sits hunched over, arms resting on his knees, face still closed and unreadable. _To hell with this!_ you decide as you sit up in your chair and clear your throat. _If_ _I’m going to end up being a prisoner here, I won’t make it easy_ _for them_. Pointedly ignoring Arthur, you look Dutch in the eye. “You know how I ended up here, Mr. van der Linde,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm and even, despite your racing heart. “Both you and Mr. Matthews saw that for yourselves when Hector was trying to put a bullet in me.” Arthur looks at you then, his eyes drawn to the bandages poking out under the cuffs of your blouse. _What the hell happened to her after we left_ , he thinks, guilt blooming once again within him.

“I do indeed Miss Clarke,” Dutch says, his voicing sounding sincere. “You also told us of your flight from your husband and how you got robbed by a, what did you call him, ‘a savage brute of an outlaw’?” Arthur flinches at the accusation, a stab of anger jabbing him in his heart. The silence lingers and looking between the two men, realisation dawns on you. _They didn’t know he did this_ , you think, a flicker of hope blooming in your chest. _Maybe there is a way I can get out of here alive_!

Dutch turns his steely gaze to Arthur. “You never told me, son,” he says quietly and Arthur fidgets in his seat, feeling more and more like a child under Dutch’s unforgiving gaze. “What you talkin’ about, Dutch?” he murmurs looking down at his hands, avoiding both you and Dutch.

“You never told me who you really stole the gold from,” Dutch says, his voice growing colder. “You told Hosea and I that it was a bank transport. I never thought you would steal from a woman who was clearly running from something terrible,” Dutch scolds him, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We have a code for a reason, son!”

A surge of irritation stabs at Arthur then as he turns his full attention to Dutch, hands bunching into fists. “I was doin’ this for us, Dutch!” he says in a raised voice, weeks worth of bottled up frustrations spilling over. “For the gang. For our family! After that mess at Blackwater; losing Mac and Jenny; losing all of our money; running from the Pinkerton’s and barely surviving the Grizzlies. I – I saw her in Valentine and I knew that she had gold in that bag and that it would help save us.” he trails off as his shoulders slump down, his rage suddenly snuffed out at the confession. “I made a mistake Dutch, I knew that when I saw her bruises and I know it now. She didn’t deserve any of this,” he says, gesturing towards you, remorse crossing his features. “But you still took the gold and you lied to me about how you got it,” Dutch says, his voice low and Arthur looks away from his mentor, jaw set firmly, his hands now balled into fists.

You scoff loudly, interrupting Arthur’s vulnerable confession. “ _She_ is sitting right here, Mr. Morgan,” you say, scorn dripping in your voice as you look at the outlaw's shocked face. “And _she_ remembers very well how you had crossed paths early in the day and how you also helped _her_ put her bag on to the God damn train! I’m pretty sure you had a good, long time to think this through so, please, spare me your damn pity.”

Dutch looks at you with an appraising eye; you’re sitting tall in your chair with your arms crossed over your chest, the streak of audacity he had seen briefly in your re-telling of your story, glitters again in your eyes as you look at the outlaw. Arthur stares at you dumbfounded, your green eyes boring into his and he is quickly reminded of how you confronted him that night on the train. His shock quickly dissolves into a bitter grimace and he shakes his head in disbelief. _Who the hell is this damn woman and why did I spend days feelin’ bad for her!_ he thinks, irritation swelling in him _._ _To hell with this!_

“Well if ya weren’t lookin’ so damn obvious dragging around a bag that clearly had gold in it, I might have not robbed ya!” he says with a sneer, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. You shoot up from your seat, frustration building in you. “Did ya ever think, Mr. Morgan,” you spit, your demur composure slipping once again. “That maybe you just shouldn’t rob from folk who are mindin’ their own damn business?!”

Arthur is now on his feet too, his teeth bared as he looms over you. “Well, Miss Clarke, I’m just a – what you call me- a _savage, brute of an outlaw_ , so’s I guess I was just doin’ what’s in my nature,” he says with a low growl, unable to contain the irritation your words have stirred in him. Dutch rubs his hand across his chin, watching on silently as you take a step closer to Arthur. Planting your fists on your hips and looking up at him with fire in your eyes. “Well it seems then, that we are both in agreement of your character, Mr. Morgan,” you say coolly and Arthur takes a frustrated breath, the scowl on his face deepening. “Well, Miss Clarke, it seems like you’re still a damned pain in my as –,” Arthur starts, before being cut off by Dutch’s hand on his shoulder. “Enough!” he says as he lightly pushes Arthur back down into his seat while casting a look at you. “I think you have both said enough.” Grumbling, Arthur lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag, sitting hunched in the chair like a scolded child. You press your lips together to stop a laugh bubbling up in you. _This is ridiculous_ , you think as you take a step back, pressing the palm of your hand to your forehead. _Have I gone mad? I’m having a spat with the man who robbed me, in a camp full of other bandits!_

Chuckling loudly, Dutch turns his attention fully to you, his eyes shining brightly. “Miss Clarke,” he says, gesturing for you to sit again. “I have a proposition for you that I think you will be quite interested in.”


	7. Welcome to the van der Linde gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Clarke has decided to stay with the van der Linde's and Arthur ain't too happy about it....who can blame him, no one really likes having a reminder of their lower moments just hangin' around!
> 
> The slow burn angst continues and will likely do so for another few chapters...Bless, our poor cowboah can't seem to fully process all the emotions he is feeling!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again,  
> Finally, another chapter released....another long chapter! Thank you to all who actually make it to the end! It's very appreciated!  
> I really wanted to get from A to B with this chapter and ended up writing +11K words of different scenarios! 😲 I decided to split it over 2 chapters cos, damn. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy as this really is a slow burn and I'm just loving writing their angsty interactions...I'm a sucker for it it seems!
> 
> It also warms my cold heart to see you taking the time out to first read my story and then leave a comment/kudos! Thank you! It honestly makes my day every time!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter  
> ❤

“Dutch you can’t be serious about this,” Arthur says quietly, his voice laced with frustration. “Jus’ give her back the gold and send her on her way. She ain’t right for the camp. She is too...too _upper class_ for the likes of us. They won’t accept her.” Both men watch as Miss Grimshaw leads you across the camp to where the other women are set up, your bag of clothes in one arm and a bedroll in the other. There is a smile plastered across your face as you talk animatedly to the other woman. Dutch claps him hard on the back, hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “Arthur, my boy,” he starts, his voice firm. “Miss Clarke has more than proved herself capable by getting to where she is using only her wits and brass, despite her _upper-class background_ ,” he says with an amused lilt in his voice. “Give her a bit of time with us and I’m sure she will fit right in with the others. She had me swayed from the moment we found her on that dirt road; tied up and running for her life. Despite her circumstance, there was a spark in her, Arthur. She’s a fighter!”

Arthur glances at Dutch and sees almost admiration in his eyes as he watches you across the camp before the man turns back to face him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “What really sealed the deal for me though was when she launched herself at you,” Dutch says, his booming laugh carrying across the camp only deepening Arthur’s scowl. “I thought she was gonna claw your eyes out if Hosea didn’t step in!” The teasing in his voice only irritates Arthur further. “An’ that’s the kinda attitude that makes her a liability, Dutch,” Arthur spits, shrugging the man’s hand from his shoulder. “She don’t know what the real world is like; what we’re really like! Besides, her husband is lookin’ for her and if he has that much gold, he probably has the power to match. We don’t need that kinda attention brought down on us!” _We have enough as it is_ , he thinks exasperatedly, as he watches you introduce yourself to the other women. _And I don’t need a constant reminder of that damn robbery living in the camp_.

Dutch lets a sigh blow through his lips and turns to face the younger man. “Oh, Arthur, relax,” he says in a placating tone, hand once again resting affectionately on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know you haven’t had pleasant experiences in the past with women of Miss Clarke’s standing mixing with the other members of our family, but you’re right; she is too high class for this kind of lifestyle.” A low rumble sounds in Arthur’s throat, the grip on his belt tightening as thoughts of Mary flit across his mind. “However,” Dutch says, sharply, stabbing his finger into the air, “she made the final decision to stay. She said it herself, she doesn’t have any other options and accepted our offer to help her start a new life, one of freedom!” This draws a sarcastic laugh from Arthur, “What, you mean your _plan_ for her _justice_ against her husband, which coincidently puts a shit load of gold in our pockets?” Dutch chuckles as he watches your introductions to Karen, Abigail and little Jack. “Well, there is no harm in benefiting somewhere from all of this don’t you think, son?” he says and Arthur shakes his head. “I still think it’s a bad idea, Dutch,” Arthur says quietly. “What about you always sayin’ ‘revenge is a fools game’? I know you ain’t sayin’ it’s revenge, but it sure as hell sounds like revenge to me.” Dutch grip on Arthur’s shoulder tightens as he looks sternly in his eye, his patience for his adopted son wearing thin. “Have some faith, Arthur. We are offering this poor woman a chance at freedom, a chance at some justice against a monster!” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Have some goddamn faith in me and this gang, please!”

Arthur looks dolefully away at his words. _He always has a way of making me feel like a goddamn kid_ , he thinks, his jaw clenching. _And definitely not for the first time today_. “I’m sorry Dutch,” he says through his teeth. “I trust ya.” Dutch’s sour face brightens instantly as he claps his hands together. “Excellent,” he says as he turns away from Arthur, pulling a cigar from the box on his table waving his hand in Arthur’s direction. “I’m glad we have sorted this out.” Arthur takes this as he cue to leave and as he walks towards his tent Dutch calls out to him once more, “And, Arthur, leave Miss Clarke be. After the trouble _we_ have caused her, she deserves a bit of peace; a bit of freedom from her worries.” Arthur’s fists clench at the unsubtle jab. _He is still mad about the robbery._ “Sure,” Arthur says as he looks over to you kneeling down in front of Jack, offering your hand to him, the boys face brightening. He feels a scowl on his face, “No problem with that.”

 

Rolling out the bedroll on to the raised pallet beside Mary-Beth’s blankets you sit down and draw your knees to your chest, taking a deep breath. Miss Grimshaw had cut the introductions short and gave you some time to get yourself settled. You were feeling a bit overwhelmed at how quickly everything changed for you after your spat with Arthur. You had thought perhaps you had taken things too far losing your temper as you did, standing up to the outlaw; you were a stranger in their camp and a victim of their theft, but instead of being forced out and left to fend for yourself Dutch sat you down and spoke at great length about his family, of their freedom, honour and code and how you could be a part of that. You had flicked a glance towards Arthur who stood off to the side of the tent. He watched you and Dutch silently, his hands tightly gripped the belt slung low on his waist and a grimace set on his face. _He clearly isn’t a fan of this idea_ , you had thought as you returned your attention to Dutch who in the end was true to his word. He had offered you sanctuary in their gang, which you eagerly accepted. _I have to look out for myself now_ , you had thought as you firmly gripped his outstretched hand. _I have no knight in shining armour to_ _get_ _me out of this mess._

You’re pulled from your contemplation by the return of Miss Grimshaw who drops a bucket of water and some rags by your feet. “Clean yourself up, girl,” she says, a smirk pinching her lips. “You smell to high heaven.” You couldn’t help but laugh, very happy that there was no mirror around. _I’m sure I look a complete mess at this point_ , you think and you stand to your feet. _A literal mix of blood, sweat and tears_. “Is there a bathing area I can use, Miss Grimshaw?” you ask, naively looking around the camp for some kind of sheltered space. You jump at the bark of laughter that comes from Miss Grimshaw as she looks over you, hands planted on her hips. “Miss Clarke,” she says firmly, “If you are to be joining our family, the best advice I can give you is to start using that brain of yours and don’t act like some dimwitted ninny.” You are dumbstruck at the change in her tone, her sharp voice sending a bolt of panic down you. _She sounds like Miss_ _Evans_ , you think, the memories of your ever strict governess flashing in your mind. _That woman was_ _a nightmare_ _!_ You flinch when she snaps her arm across the camp, pointing to a copse of trees. “Go over there and walk until you can’t see anyone,” she says plainly. “That will be your bath house, Miss Clarke.” With that, she turns on her heel and stalks across the camp.

You look awkwardly towards the trees, a flush of embarrassment colouring your cheeks. _Of course they wouldn’t have a bath house_ , you think harshly to yourself as you look down at the bucket of cold water. _It’s just some wagons on a plateau. What the hell did I expect?_ You rummage through your bag and pick out the simplest looking clothes in there, a dark blue skirt and white blouse and fresh chemise and drawers. “I need to fit in,” you say pointedly to yourself as you roll them under your arm and lift the bucket. “I’m no longer the daughter of a business man or the wife to a gold magnate, I’m just a free woman who has to start making some smart decisions.” Overwhelmed with chagrin, you quickly walk across to the thicket and through the underbrush until you can’t hear any sounds of the camp, just as Miss Grimshaw said. Finding a clearing, you kneel down, settling the bucket in front of you. You timidly begin unbuttoning your blouse, throwing nervous glances over your shoulder before letting out a frustrated groan. Years of learned prudishness was making the simple task of bathing into something so daunting. _How come I could unbutton my blouse so easily in front of that damned outlaw but I can’t do it when I’m alone in a wood_ , you think, the memory of his startled blue eyes peering out under his hat and bandana causing a blush to rise on your cheeks. _I was out of my mind to do that in front of someone like him!_ You huff a laugh to yourself as you finish unbuttoning your blouse and pulling it from your shoulders, before working the buttons on the back of your skirt, leaving you in your chemise and drawers. _But if_ _I have any chance of_ _a life away from Felix_ _,_ _I need to loosen up a bit_ _,_ _shake off this genteel upbringing!_ _Get back to who you were before Felix ever came in to your life._

Once you get past the initial chill of the water, it feels amazing to cleanse the grime from your skin. Rinse away days worth of fear and horror; the dried blood Miss Grimshaw had missed; the dust and muck from Valentine; the touch of Hector’s fingers from your neck. You’re careful not to wet the bandages on your tender wrists, dots of red already seeping through the fabric. Once you had pulled on your clean clothes and brush out your matted hair, you felt like a new woman. As your fingers nimbly worked your hair into a simple braid, you let your mind wander. Despite the rocky start, it felt you were in the right place. _They seem like good people_ , you think as you tie off the braid with a piece of ribbon. _T_ _hey treat the women well_ _too and_ _little Jack is the sweetest boy._ An exasperated sigh passes your lips then, “How long am I going to be able to stay here before that outlaw wants me gone though,” you say, your mood dampening slightly as you think back to the grimace on Arthur’s face as Dutch told you of his plan. “It’s clear he doesn’t want me here.” _Judging_ _by_ _how_ _angry_ _Dutch_ _was_ _with_ _him_ _, him_ _robbing me_ _was not part of their code._ _It_ _makes sense he wouldn’t want a constant reminder in the camp_.

Bundling up your dirty clothes, you pause when you feel the firm weight in your skirts. Reaching in you pull out the small gold bar, still wrapped in your scarf. You were glad you had secreted it into your pocket during the robbery. _At least I have this if I need a quick escape from here_ , you think morosely, the weight carrying with it the dark memories of your time with Felix. “If Dutch can do as he says,” you mutter, wrapping the bar back in your scarf and stuffing it between your dirty clothes, “I can at least get some retribution against that bastard of a husband!” Thinking back on your conversation with Dutch, you were hesitant to bring up the subject of the gold Arthur had stolen from you. You had a feeling that you wouldn’t see it again, but you were honestly glad of it. _If it means I am free from Felix, then it was worth every damn bar._

You’re walking back towards the camp, your footing sure, when a low grunt to your left stills you. Turning slowly, you’re met with a scruffy, bearded man dressed in just his red union suit leaning his arm against a tree. The sound of liquid splashing against the ground is the only noise as you lock eyes and you feel a bubble of discomfort rise. He is taken aback at first, before a wide grin splits his face. “Ah, it’s the fine lady!” he slurs, turning towards you, the stream of his urine edging far too close to your shoes. “What’er you doin’ here?” You look on, a mixture of horror and mortification plastered on your face before you turn and race from the copse to your bedroll, breaking down and gasping for breath between your howls of laughter. Shock and confusion mar the faces of Tilly, Mary-Beth and Karen as you wipe away the tears and try to explain what you just saw. They soon start laughing with you and despite your uncertain feelings towards Arthur, you knew this was the right place for you and you were going to make sure you fit in.

 

Arthur had no problem in giving you space as Dutch had asked. You very rarely crossed paths in your first weeks there as he had been out of the camp more than in it. Whether it was stopping in to pick up some supplies, drop off any information he had found out or just collapse into his bunk for a quick nap, he hadn’t really spoken to you since you parted ways at Dutch’s tent. When Arthur did end up speaking with you, it was usually in the morning when you both reached for the coffee pot, or later in the day when Pearson’s stew was ready. You were civil around him, but the warmth in your words never reached your eyes, they remained void of anything but polite apathy. When you would both lapse in to an awkward silence, you would make your excuses and walk to the far side of the camp or join someone else’s conversation, leaving Arthur standing alone with a strange feeling in his gut he couldn’t put his finger on. The sidelong glances the other camp members threw him didn’t make him feel much better. They were clearly perturbed by his actions towards you; Arthur robbing an innocent was very out of character for him it seemed.

While he didn’t dwell too much on this, it did start to grate on him to see that you were integrating yourself with the camp more and more every time he came back. First it was with Pearson; he had spotted you at his wagon, scrubbing the dirty plates and bowls as you listened to the man ramble on about his time in the Navy, rapture written across your face. _Pearson looks as happy as a pig in shit_ , Arthur had thought to himself, that unfamiliar feeling swirling in his stomach as he looked closer at your face. He noticed that the bruises on your face were fading with just a tinge of yellow outlining your eye. Even your once pale skin had started taking on a healthy glow from your new life outdoors making your green eyes sparkle even brighter.

The second time was when he was walking across camp with Charles, heading out for a hunt, when the man broke away at the sight of you. He jogged up to where you were wringing out a pile of washing and Arthur watched on as he reached into his pocket and produced a glittering brooch and handed it to you. Quiet words were exchanged and your eyes brimmed with tears as you clutched the brooch to your chest. Charles bashfully rubbed the back of his neck when a sun splitting smile broke across your face and as he retreated towards Arthur and the outlaw looked between you both with an incredulous look. “The hell was that about?” Arthur had asked him, his curiosity getting the better of him. “We stole the brooch from her during that robbery and it didn’t seem right to keep it since she is part of the gang now,” he said simply. “Said it was her grandmother’s so I’m glad I gave it back to her.” Arthur turned back to see you still clutching the brooch to your chest and as you met his eyes, your smile had vanished and Arthur felt a stab of frustration. _She ain’t supposed to be staying here_ , he scowls, shaking his head and pulling himself into the saddle of his horse. _She ain’t suited to our kinda life._

The final straw for Arthur was the evening after a successful stagecoach job. Lying back in his cot he tries to relax, his pencil moving frantically on the page as he tries to remember the finer details of a stag he had seen earlier that day. The drawing is a scattered mess as his mind keeps flicking to the events earlier in the evening. Music and singing sounded from the back of the camp when they rode in from the job. Uncle was playing a jaunty tune on his banjo and Lenny, Bill and Javier eagerly unsaddled their horses and made their way to join, picking up some bottles of beer and whiskey on the way, ready to play catch up. Arthur took his time and brushed down his horse before stopping by Dutch’s tent to drop off the camp share of the robbery. Seeing it empty, he turns the corner and stops at the scene the greets him.

You and Hosea are dancing around the campfire, moving in tandem with Uncles tune, while Tilly, Karen, Mary-Beth and even Sadie sit on a log, clapping their hands and singing along. Abigail and Jack are sat on the ground, Jack cuddled close to his mother, while John sits just behind them on a crate, bottle in one hand and the other resting timidly on Abigail’s shoulder. Charles is lying back on the grass, propped up on one elbow as he watches the dance, a rare smile on his face. Dutch sits proudly on a chair with Molly perched on his knee and both are laughing and clapping along to the tune like everyone else. The light of the fire casting a warming glow on everyone’s faces as they look on but the smile on your face is one of unrestrained joy and Hosea is chortling as he spins you under his arm, your skirts billowing as your twirl, your laughter ringing out in the clear, starry night.

Arthur is drawn in, unable to take his eyes off the scene, off of you. He hadn’t seen the camp this relaxed in a long time, not since well before Blackwater. _Are we celebratin’ something?,_ he thinks with confusion as Hosea expertly leads you in the dance. “Lenny, my boy,” Hosea calls out, “Please take my place, I’m afraid I’m no match for Miss Clarke’s boundless energy.” The gang whoop and holler as Lenny quickly stands and effortlessly grasps your hands when Hosea releases you, your head thrown back in a hearty laugh, your eyes glittering like emeralds in the fire light. Arthur skirts the edge of the circle now, watching as you and Lenny dance, the song reaching a crescendo; all the gang clap and whistle as you both spin in a tight circle before he releases you with a flourish as the song ends, a breathless laugh passing your lips as you stumble right into Arthur. The gang laugh loudly and wolf whistle in your direction before their attention is pulled away when Javier starts another song on his guitar, the festive atmosphere continuing as everyone sings along, more drinks being poured.

He staggers back at the force, his hands gripping your waist, steadying you. You had tried to brace your fall and had your hands wrapped around his suspenders, the fabric of his shirt knotted in your fingers. You’re breathing hard, the exertion of the dance colouring your cheeks a rosy pink as you look up at him with your sparkling green eyes and he can feel his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes find yours and immediately, the smile that lit up your face around the fire falls and you cast your eyes aside, clearing your throat. You loosen your grip on his shirt and Arthur hesitates before lifting his hands from your waist. You immediately take a step away from him. “My apologies, Mr. Morgan,” you say quietly, smoothing your hands down the front of your skirts. “I didn’t mean to bump in to you like that.” The tone in your voice is cold and withdrawn and Arthur feels a stab in his gut as you shift from one foot to another, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. Before he can say anything, you gather your skirts up and dip into a small curtsy, “If you’ll excuse me,” you say before you walk away from the revelry of the camp fire and are swallowed up by the inky shadows of the camp.

“What did ya say to her, Arthur?” Hosea asks from behind him, his hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder. “I didn’t say a goddamn thing, Hosea,” he barks, watching your retreat, frustration welling up in him. “She is just always actin’ like a damned _high society_ lady, lookin’ down her nose at us.” Hosea lets out a deep sigh and moves to stand in front of him, hands resting on both shoulders. “Arthur,” he starts, giving him a small shake, forcing the man to look at him “Miss Clarke has not treated anyone else here like that. Not once. Since she has joined our family, she has worked hard, as hard as anyone else here, to make sure that she won’t be judged from where she came from. You just haven’t been here to see that.” Arthur presses his lips in to a firm line an uncomfortable feeling resting in his gut. “Then why is she like that with me?” he asks and Hosea scoffs. “Oh come on, Arthur,” he chastises as he leads the younger man to away from the campfire. “Don’t play the dumb cowboy act now. You’re smarter than that; you know why she treats you as she does.”

Arthur sits down on a chair with a huff and rests his elbows on his knees, fingers clasped together. “Charles was part of that robbery too, but she is all smiles with him since he gave her back that brooch,” Arthur says dismally, that overwhelming feeling of guilt bursting through again. “Arthur, Miss Clarke is well on her way to becoming part of this family so you best get over this little issue you’re having and accept it,” Hosea says firmly, reprimand in his voice. “ _Apologise_ to the woman and move on, Lord know she deserves it after everything she has been through.” Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a wash of different emotions running through him. Normally he is sure of his path and little can distract him from it, but since that day in Valentine, he has called his judgements into question more times than he cares to think. “Hosea, you don’t understand, she ain’t meant for this life. She shouldn’t be runnin’ with the likes of us, she is too...she is,” he falters, before continuing. “It’s my fault that she ended up here and I don’t want to carry that around if somethin’ happens to her. Besides, she just rubs me up the wrong way!” His shoulders slump at the confession and the feelings he thought quashed when he spoke to Charles coming to the fore again. “Well, Arthur, it is your fault,” Hosea says, a grim satisfaction on his face as he sees Arthur’s body tense, “and you best figure out a way to fix it cos she is a smart woman and it won’t be long before things go past a point of no return, be it for better or worse.”

Arthur hisses out a breath as he sits up from his cot, scrubbing his hand on the back of his neck. A flicker of resentment curls in him as Hosea’s words repeat in his head. He really had thought his talk with Charles and confessing to Dutch had cleared his conscience of the overwhelming guilt he felt at robbing you. It clearly wasn’t the case after seeing you fit in with the gang so well; seeing how you came to life around everyone but him. His more craven self couldn’t face having a reminder of his darker moments living in the camp if all you would ever give him are sharp glares and even sharper words. Shaking his head, he tries to focus back to his journal. Normally pencilling down his thoughts or doing some sketches would ease any frustrations he felt, be it about Dutch’s changing mood recently or a job gone bad, but over the last few weeks it wasn’t working, especially tonight. _She_ _shouldn’t be here_ , he thinks as he snaps his journal shut, sketch abandoned. _She_ _shouldn’t_ be _on_ _e of us so why is she still hangin’ around_. He looks to his trunk by the end of his cot and lets a deep sigh fall from his lips. Opening it up, he pulls out a bundle of cloth, a solid shape wrapped up in it and marches towards your tent. _I shoulda’ done this from the first day_ , he thinks, his irritation bubbling over. _I’m a fool for not fixin’ this sooner._ Most of the gang are still crowded around the campfire, singing along to Javier’s guitar, but you didn’t return. He stops in front of your tent and finds you leaning against the wagon, your face in a book and a shawl wrapped around your shoulders. A lantern is perched close to your face, it’s soft glow illuminating your delicate features. You start when he drops the bundle at your feet and crosses his arms over his chest. You look at the lump of fabric and up at him, the light revealing your confused look. “Mr. Morgan,” you utter, pulling your shawl tighter around you, you face settling into a frown. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“That’s yours,” he says, pointing to the bundle before looking off towards the edge of camp, thumbs hooking onto his gun belt. “I can ride ya back in to Valentine and you can get on the train where you was supposed to be goin’ a few weeks ago.” Unnerved by your silence, he glances down and is met with disbelief written across your face, your fingers unravelling the fabric to reveal a gold bar, his share from the robbery. “Are you wanting me to leave, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, your voice shaking as you look at the gold in your hands. “I can bring ya to a fence first so you can sell it, you would probably get around two or three hundred dollars for a bar that big,” he continues with a wave of his hand, his voice flat. “Should be enough to get ya started somewhere else.” You shrug off your shawl and slowly rise to your feet in front of him, fingers gripped tightly around the gold as you meet his eyes.

“Mr. Morgan,” you say, your voice quiet, the faint lantern light casting inscrutable shadows across your face. “Are you really askin’ me to leave?” He looks down at you, resolute in the decision he had made. _She has to go_ , _for the sake of the gang and for my sanity_ , he thinks. “Yes, Miss Clarke,” he says, his voice stony. “I’m askin’ you to leave. Take your gold and start a life somewhere far from here. We’re bad people and you’re too – too _good_ for a place like this...” The crack of your slap against his cheek startles him, his eyes going wide as he turns back to face you. _What the hell_ , he thinks but is taken aback by your fury on your features. “How dare you, Mr. Morgan,” you spit, tears filling your eyes. “How dare you ask me to leave when you’re the reason I’m here!” He watches on as you scrub the tears from your eyes before they fall and wrap the fabric back around gold in sharp, jerky motions, your hands shaking with every move. You shove the bundle against his chest and he fumbles to catch it. “Take it and get the hell away from me,” you sneer as you turn your back to him. “I don’t want anything more to do with that gold or you, you damned crook.” Arthur’s shoulders tense at your words, his mouth setting into a grim line. “Are you sure, Miss Clarke?” he starts, his voice harsh, “If that’s how you wanna be, that’s fine, but don’t think for a second that this is gonna be easy for you. You ain’t like us and this ain’t goin’ to be a good life so don’t come cryin’ to me when things get tough.” You turn on your heel at his words and glare up at him, your jaw clenched tight to stop it from wobbling. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan,” you hiss, “You’re the last person I’ll ever ask for help.”


End file.
